


Until the World Goes Cold

by panda_shi



Series: Beneath the Sun [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anbu Yamato | Tenzou, Animal Death, Bad Decisions, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Conditioning, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Killing, Killing A Pet, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, Near Death Experiences, Not Really Character Death, One-Sided Attraction, Past Hatake Kakashi/Yamato | Tenzou - Freeform, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Rokudaime Hatake Kakashi, Sexual Content, Trauma, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 108,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: A what-if story.If an active field ANBU operative dies during a mission but no body is cremated or no proof of death is presented before the Hokage, their names on the rosters is marked with a red star. The red star will remain on the roster for a period of one year; it gives time for the Hunters to prove that they haven’t gone missing or that they haven’t betrayed Konoha. Only after the one year mark will an operative’s name be etched onto the memorial stone and the red star retracted, marking them as deceased.The law is effective within ANBU; after all, ANBU is made up of mostly individuals with very little ties to the living.But it is cruel to those that are left behind. It is callous to those who knows, without a shred of doubt, that their loved one would never betray Konoha.On a Thursday, the 10th of January, Tenzou’s name gets marked with a red star.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka, Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, Hatake Kakashi/Yamato | Tenzou, Umino Iruka & Yamato | Tenzou, Umino Iruka/Yamato | Tenzou
Series: Beneath the Sun [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524128
Comments: 142
Kudos: 198





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Iruka receives the news one cold, frozen evening, under the harsh halogen light of the Hokage’s office, where the outside world is blanketed under dove grey skies and rolling dark clouds that would bring with it Konoha’s coldest rain. He stands before the Hokage, staring at him like he’s not sure he’s heard the words coming out of Kakashi’s mouth quite right. The words sound distant, drowned out by the howl of the wind beyond the darkened glass panes of the Hokage’s office windows, where the frost has gathered around the frame, jagged, the ice spreading in a slow crawl around the glass, as sharp as knives, bitter and cruel in its rigidity -- like the cold that is suddenly seeping into Iruka’s bones at that very moment, cutting like blades, as if he’s been standing in a doorway left open to the icy wind. 

The shiver that goes down Iruka’s spine radiates to the tips of his fingers, making them tremble as he balls them to fists and blinks at almost - dare he say - apologetic look Kakashi is giving him.

Or maybe it’s pity.

Maybe it’s guilt.

Iruka isn’t sure. 

Kakashi is a hard man to read.

“I’m sorry, Hokage-sama, could you please repeat that?” Iruka requests softly, blinking a few times and taking a step closer to the desk, fingernails digging into his palms in an attempt to sharpen his focus, to be in the present, not stuck in the echo of Kakashi’s words. 

Kakashi doesn’t respond immediately, but his throat bobs once, his jawline sharpening in its brief clench before it relaxes. Iruka notices the lines that appear around the corners of Kakashi’s eyes, small ones, hardly noticeable, something Iruka would have missed for sure if he wasn’t so focused on Kakashi at the moment, trying to cling on to every word, every detail of this moment, trying to read him.

Kakashi exhales softly, his throat bobbing again before he goes very still. “Did Tenzou explain what the process within ANBU is when a field operative is declared dead?”

Iruka nods slowly, everything in him going numb. The warmth starts to recede from his toes, all the way up to his knees, leaving him a little unsteady on his feet. Iruka is forced to suck in a deep breath as he forces himself to keep his posture straight, grabbing to whatever strength he can claw onto from within, the remnants of his pride and etiquette as he nods again, forgetting that he had already done so just seconds ago.

“He has…” Iruka stares at a spot on Kakashi’s cheek, at the fabric weave of his mask as he recalls a memory from years ago, before the war, before they lost everything, a little after they had gotten married. 

Tenzou liked to keep his affairs in order; he had brought in some paperwork for Iruka to sign, had explained to him different scenarios at what can and will happen. One of the scenarios involved Tenzou dying during a mission with no body to return to Konoha. 

If an active field ANBU operative dies during a mission but no body is cremated or no proof of death is presented before the Hokage, their names on the rosters is marked with a red star. The red star will remain on the roster for a period of one year; it gives time for the Hunters to prove that they haven’t gone missing or that they haven’t betrayed Konoha. Only after the one year mark will an operative’s name be etched onto the memorial stone and the red star retracted, marking them as deceased. 

The law is effective within ANBU; after all, ANBU is mostly made up of individuals with very little ties to the living. 

Iruka remembers thinking very vividly how cruel that law is to those that are left behind. It is callous to those who knows, without a shred of doubt, that their loved one would never betray Konoha. 

“He would never betray Konoha,” Iruka says, the words strangled, heavy. It’s a desperate scramble to cling to the only thing other than the elephant in the room. 

“No. He wouldn’t,” Kakashi agrees, his conviction clear, his eyes darkening like the skies beyond his office, a storm brewing in its depths. “Tenzou and his team were on their way back. They were pursued and attacked between the borders of Rain and Grass…”

Something gets stuck in Iruka’s throat, thick, paving to a bitter nausea that swirls unrestrained in Iruka’s empty stomach. The tea he had drank earlier suddenly tastes like acid, roiling from within as his head starts to fill to the brim with half-formed regrets, fleeting in its formation, coming and going as Iruka’s world begins to spin out of control. It blurs everything around him, dulling the sounds further as Kakashi’s lips move to confirm that there is no body, that Tenzou’s team states he fell into a ravine, taking their attackers with him, that Tenzou ordered them ahead, that the mission takes precedence over everything else. 

Ever the good soldier right down to the last minute.

There is no body to prove that Tenzou is dead. Not even a small part of him.

His team didn’t have the chance to go back and check. If there is a body lying at the bottom of the ravine, shattered amidst the jagged rocks, or maybe in pieces. Or maybe Tenzou is lying somewhere at the bottom of the river, decaying and forgotten. 

Kakashi tells him the Hunters have been dispatched already.

Iruka suddenly cannot breathe. He cannot move. He cannot think. His entire body remains in stasis, stuck to the floorboards of the Hokage’s office, the cold seeping deeper into him, trapping him in a wasteland of white where there’s nothing for him to hang on to. Everything disappears for a moment as this cold reality of what Tenzou’s has been prepping him for years has finally come. 

It’s a waiting game. The most cruel kind of all.

Iruka isn’t sure what he says after, isn’t even sure if he remembers to exercise his manners when he excuses himself from Kakashi’s presence to go home to a frozen apartment, memories suspended behind walls of ice, forever trapped in an equilibrium between the living and the dead with Iruka imprisoned in the middle, unsure if he should mourn for a loss or hope for the return of his husband.

*

What follows the moment Iruka’s world gets trapped in an arctic rigidity is his silence.

The truth is, Iruka isn’t quite sure how to say goodbye to someone he loves. The thought of a goodbye, the permanency of it is so painful, so sharp in the way the thought would cut through every part of him, that it is impossible to use words to capture a longing so intense. Iruka can’t form the thought of a goodbye, not fully.

He can’t say it.

So he doesn’t. 

Iruka’s heartbeat doesn’t stop it’s steady rhythm, the same way he doesn’t stop performing his duty. But the warmest parts of him, the one that loves Tenzou the same way he breathes, the one that had fallen for the quiet, simple if not humble man who didn’t really want much for himself but had dedicated his life to give Iruka a world more wondrous than any other existence -- _their_ world -- gets buried in a white tundra, devoid of any color, a giant blank page.

Coming home to a place that is devoid of warmth, where the night seems never ending, the bitterness biting even harder with each passing moment, a forever winter within the walls of a rooftop apartment surrounded by an eden that is permanently frostbitten brings no comfort. It only serves to remind Iruka of the emptiness in his chest, the sheer vastness that Tenzou had taken with him three weeks ago, when he pressed his lips to Iruka’s temple, long and lingering, as he breathed deeply as if for the last time and tells him to take care of himself. The memory of that moment, now that Iruka thinks about it, tears what’s left of him, spreading the cast emptiness in his chest as he lies there on their bed, staring up at the starry skies misted with the last of winter segueing into spring. If he had known that the goodbye Tenzou had brushed against his temple that evening would be his last, Iruka likes to imagine unrealistic scenarios where he wouldn’t have let Tenzou go. He imagines how he would have begged for Tenzou to stay, how he would have held on a little tighter, how he would have made up any excuse to prolong their time together for just a moment longer.

Iruka would tell him how much he loves him, tell him how seeing him come home each time makes the air Iruka breathes that much sweeter, how each breath his lungs takes is deeper, more fulfilling. He would tell him that the world is a dark place without him, how even in his silence, Tenzou remains the sun that illuminate Iruka’s very small world. That Tenzou coming home is like watching the most wondrous sunrise.

Imagining the impossible doesn’t grant any respite from the colder world beyond the walls of his apartment. Nor does it provide any warmth from the icy walls of his home that starts gradually starts to resemble more of a holding cell rather than anything else.

*

  
Iruka isn’t even sure he’s truly moved on from that moment in the Hokage’s office, even when everything around him continues to move forward. Time is funny that way. It has no ties to the living, cares little for what happens in the past and present; time just marches on, leaving Iruka to watch everyone move further ahead while his feet remains locked in a spread of jagged ice in the middle of the Hokage’s office.

Iruka tells himself to be patient. 

He tells himself to do what Tenzou would have done -- focus on the things you can control, take it a step at a time, do right by the village, your duty.

Iruka realizes, as winter slowly lifts in favor of greener grounds and warmer days, that he doesn’t have control of a lot of things. That he is, in essence, forever trapped in the moment Kakashi had told him that his husband is, essentially, dead.

That he is, without Tenzou, nothing more than another foot soldier in the grand scheme of things serving a system blindly when all the love he had to give is miles away, probably decaying in the ground.

There’s nothing wrong with being a good soldier.  
  
Tenzou was a good soldier too, wasn’t he? Even long before he met Iruka.

*

On a Thursday, the 10th of January, Tenzou’s name gets marked with a red star.

TBC


	2. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

_I am a good soldier._

Iruka repeats the words once more to himself just as the last child from his class files out of the classroom. He does not realize that it is sunset already when he looks up from the student roster he’s been staring at for a long time. The clock reads six-fifteen, that child would have left almost two hours ago. Iruka sighs, pushing himself off the chair to gather his belongings, clearing his table for day to begin his shift at the missions office.

Time becomes like that for Iruka, compressed, warped. 

Time also did not seem to matter.

It’s been like that since he’s received the news weeks ago. Iruka vaguely remembers what happens after he had left the Hokage’s office. He remembers going home, walking through the streets of Konoha as the cold drizzle had turned to a frigid downpour. He remembers sitting on the sofa, drenched, cold, everything in him numb that it was hard to tell if it was from the news or from the rain. He remembers sitting on the sofa, staring out at the window, watching his reflection and the rainwater trickle down the glass, a mimicry of the tears he couldn’t quite form at the time.

He must have changed at some point, must have turned on the heater too. 

He remembers his breath misting, remembers how quiet everything seemed to have gotten, how the sounds beyond the walls of his apartment doesn’t quite reach his ears. He remembers the weight of their housecat coming to rest on his lap, remembers his hand lying still on the soft, striped coat that he knows is warm, or should be warm. Except, at the time, Iruka doesn’t remember feeling Mango’s warmth. He doesn’t remember hearing him meow, not until later when the sun had started to appear on the horizon.

Iruka obscurely remembers standing up from the couch, his breath misting in the early morning light, as he pads to the kitchen to address Mango’s pitiful expression. He had forgotten to feed the cat the previous evening. His disconnect with reality is realized when he sees the result of Mango’s desperation in trying to get his attention -- there are deep claw marks that had long dried on his thigh and arm, marks that would surely scar, forever reminding him of how he had not felt a thing.

Iruka had found himself wondering then, if there had been something symbolic about those marks, how it had barely scratched the surface of his frozen form on the couch, if that had been some sort of foresight for what his life is about to be like.

If one can even call it a life.

The word schedule seems to be a better fitting term.

Iruka’s simple yet structured schedule goes like this:

He wakes up before dawn and steps out into the woods to do his daily run. He dedicates another hour to go through his katas after his run and on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he would go through the obstacle course that is open for use to any shinobi who wishes to practice in solitude. 

At roughly seven in the morning, Iruka would be leaving the apartment to head to the Academy, where he would then start to prep for the day. He will have his first morning coffee at his desk, while distributing worksheets for each student and roll the window open to let the sunlight pour in. Iruka skips lunch in favor of grading worksheets, or to supervise the playground during Tuesdays and Thursdays; on those days, Iruka finds comfort in one of the swings, where he has full vantage point of the entire playground. During his playground supervision days, he too skips lunch. 

At four, the kids are sent home and Iruka is left to his devices, where he should be spending the next two hours either grading papers or preparing lesson plans for the next day. 

At six, Iruka will relocate himself to the mission room where he covers the evening shift until ten. He would have a cup of tea beside him, serve either a busy evening or a dry evening, and then head home to have dinner that is more less cup ramen these days. 

(Iruka has stopped cooking within the first week; it’s a waste to cook when most of it ends up in the trash, especially when everything he puts in his mouth ends up tasting like ash, anyway.)

By eleven, he is in bed and he reminds himself over and over again until sleep comes, _I am a good soldier._

The cycle then restarts itself at the crack of dawn.

It’s a little systematic. It’s something Iruka rigidly sticks to, avoiding anything that may make him stray from his schedule. 

His friends doesn’t like it; his friends worry. You’re going to turn to a prickly cactus again, they say. Then again, Izumo and Kotetsu doesn’t know the truth of this very long wait for the inevitable.

But that’s okay.

It’s a system that works and right now, Iruka’s priorities aren’t his social circles but to function efficiently for the village.

(Tenzou valued duty to Konoha; Iruka wouldn’t want to disappoint him in that regard.)

*

It mostly goes well, being a good soldier, that is.

Until Iruka starts to notice discrepancies in how time flows around him. 

Pockets of time seems to vanish from Iruka’s memory as he finds himself, much like that very evening, examining the space around his classroom, reading through his papers like it's the first time he’s seeing it only to realize that he has actually read it, that he hasn’t moved from the same spot at all. Iruka realizes that something happens in those short moments of warped time, where his mind seems to just blank out. He remembers no thought, no memory, remembers no movement or much of anything else. 

He just _pauses._

Much like the rest of his life from where it had come to standstill the moment the words had tumbled out of Kakashi’s mouth.

 _But this is your life now,_ Iruka reminds himself, appeasing his very quiet mind that this is indeed a life, a way of living in servitude for Konoha’s greater good, another hamster in the wheel, as he sets his cup of very cold tea that he hasn’t touched beside him. One moment, he is in his classroom in the Academy; the next moment, he’s setting his equally cold tea cup aside _again_ and is catering to the Jounins, Chuunins and Genins making their report drop off in the evening. 

A part of him points out that this -- losing time, or whatever this is -- isn’t right. That he should address it.

The other part of him, the one that remains stuck in an ice so thick thinks it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. After all, _this is how it will be from now on and as long as you keep doing what you are tasked to do, you are good soldier._

Iruka’s smile is polite, proper, professional, as he thanks the shinobis for all their hard work.

_I am a good soldier._

(You have nothing else to be but a good soldier.)

*

When Iruka closes his eyes to sleep, he dreams.

This dream is one of the many conversations he and Tenzou has had in the past, because while Tenzou may not have been the most engaging or social conversationalist in Konoha (unless he’s outright drunk, apparently, according to Asuma; Iruka is yet to witness this), while Tenzou mostly remains quiet, a little passive sometimes, if the mood is right and the timing good, talking with Tenzou is an absolute delight. Iruka can lose time listening to Tenzou’s voice, the deep rumble of baritone, how the syllables flow smoothly past his lips, always confident, always direct, what you hear is what he means. He loves listening to the truths that tumble past Tenzou’s lips, the transparency that leaves Iruka with no room to second guess. It’s rare to find someone as direct as Tenzou, whose bluntness can either be so incredibly attractive, or as cutting as a cleaving swipe of a sharpened katana.

They had just finished dinner that night, both of them sitting at the dining table with their bellies full, nursing bottles of light beer. Iruka had started a game and insisted Tenzou play along with him on who can outdo the other with the worst pick up line they can come up with on the spot. Iruka remembers some of the horrible ones that had left Tenzou’s mouth: 

If nothing lasts forever, would you be my nothing?

There must be something wrong with my eyes; I can’t seem to take them off you.

Aside from being attractive, what else do you do?

You don’t look well; I believe you are suffering from a deficiency of vitamin _me._

Iruka had asked if any of them had worked, remembers how the question had tumbled from his lips in between fits of wheezing laughter. Iruka is quite confident that he cannot outdo Tenzou in cheesy one liners. 

“It worked with you, didn’t it?” Tenzou asks, one side of his lip curling up in an amusement before spreading to a full grin.

“It did not.” Iruka shakes his head, pressing the heel of his palm against his lower lashline to stop the fall of mirthful tears.

“You’re beautiful when you laugh,” Tenzou says, honest, direct, something fond in his gaze that makes Iruka laugh a little more, as the heat starts to spread on his face.

“You and that line. It doesn’t work!” Iruka squawks, indignant, the flush radiating all the way down his chest.

“I think it does.” Tenzou props his elbows on the table, fingers drumming on the surface of the table. “Too well; admit it, Iruka-sensei likes the attention~”

“No, Iruka-sensei doesn’t!” Iruka huffs amusedly, shaking his head with a chuckle when Tenzou starts to waggle his eyebrows suggestively, much like how infamous villains in the day time soaps would do so when they’re trying to woo the protagonist. The expression is so ridiculous, so silly, that Iruka snorts and laughs again. Tenzou watches him the entire time, the fondness melting to something a little more bittersweet, a touch less brighter than the expression Tenzou had worn just seconds ago.

Iruka knows that look.

“They’re sending you away again, aren’t they?” Iruka asks, laughter gradually dissolving into an expression of resignation. Iruka tries not to let the disappointment show; Konoha is still trying to get on its feet after the war. She needs every best and able shinobi she can have. And Tenzou well, Tenzou has to be one of the best.

No one stays this long in ANBU if they are not effective.

(It’s a little scary, how stable Tenzou is after years of bloodshed.)

“I leave in the morning,” Tenzou murmurs, his gaze remaining on the table.

“A month maybe?” 

Tenzou does not answer; instead, he picks up his beer bottle, emptying its contents in one chug. 

Iruka knows the apology is forming, knows that Tenzou hates the fact that he has to leave so frequently now, when they’ve spent a year apart, separated, wondering if the other was dead. The apology is forming, as a frown appears between Tenzou’s brows, his lips parting to release the syllables. Iruka pushes his chair backwards a little loudly, putting an effective stop to that apology, smiling brightly as he stands up, walks around the table so he can wrap his arms around Tenzou from behind him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“All the more reason to celebrate once you get home. Promise me you’ll fight strong.” And because Tenzou is almost always gone, Iruka’s hold is just a touch tighter, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. 

Iruka doesn’t let Tenzou see his face. But Tenzou turns to look at him anyway, his gaze firm, reassuring, a devoted promise gleaming like black diamonds, the will of fire ablaze in all its magnificent burn.

“I promise.”

*

Sometimes he dreams of the quieter moments.

He dreams of Tenzou lying on their sofa, their house cat on his stomach, as he watches the sunset through the stretch of the glass windows in their apartment. Iruka has forgotten how many times he’s drifted away from his grading or lesson planning, opting instead to watch how the shadows shift over the sharp, handsome cut of Tenzou’s features. He forgets about a lot of things when he starts to watch his husband, always a little breathless by how attractive he is. 

Tenzou is handsome from the depth of his eyes to the subtle expressions of his voice, how it would sometimes quicken, maybe even go up a pitch if he starts speaking about something he’s invested about. It can be about the new episode of their new television show they’ve endeavored to watch together. It can be about a new book he’s picked up on the way. Sometimes, it can be about a sparring session with team seven. He’s fatally attractive when he gives his opinion on something, down to the soft brush of his hand on the curve of Iruka’s knuckles, or how his fingers would comb through Mango’s coat.

After all these years, Iruka can still get so weak in the knees just by looking at his husband. Swooning, his friends had called it. 

There’s something about seeing Tenzou so unguarded, his thick, lustrous hair tousled on the pineapple cushion he had found somewhere in Iron on one of his missions, of all places. 

(They had lost _everything_ during the war when Konoha had been decimated. Tenzou had grinned, wide and toothy, his eyes scrunching adorably as he had pulled out that cushion from his travel pack with an excited, _look what I found_? Tenzou had been so unbelievably dorky that Iruka had fallen in love with him all over again at that moment.)

There’s something about the relaxed and open body language, how Tenzou’s broad shoulders remain tucked into the lush cushions, his wash worn t-shirt riding up his stomach, soft cotton pants sitting low on his hips, his ankles crossed over the sofa’s armrest. He wouldn’t be doing anything but resting after being away from the village, content to be in the same room as Iruka, his presence a warm fire that never ceases to make Iruka’s toes curl, as butterflies would start to flutter in his stomach. 

Years later, he still doesn’t understand how he’s managed to be this lucky. To be loved by a man so fiercely loyal, so dedicated, so beautiful -- it's surreal.

(There was a time in Iruka's life where he had made peace with the idea of being alone. Where he's come to terms that heartbreak like that of what Mizuki had inflicted is not worth trying anymore. To have this - _all_ of this - still sometimes makes him wonder when he's going to wake up and realize, that none of it had been real.)

One memory takes place on a particularly scorching summer’s afternoon. Tenzou had just gotten back from a mission two days ago. He must have noticed how Iruka has been staring at him the entire time, student quizzes forgotten. Tenzou had gotten off the couch, Mango waddling away lazily, as Tenzou spoons Iruka on the floor, tucking his face around the curve of Iruka’s neck, much like he always did, years ago, when all this started. 

“A ryo for your thoughts, sensei?” Tenzou whispers, lips brushing over Iruka’s pulse.

“I’m realizing for the millionth time how in love I am with you,” Iruka says, his face igniting as he turns his gaze away, heat spreading down his neck.

“The millionth time, huh? Wow,” Tenzou murmurs, his voice a deep rumbling with affection. “To be chosen and loved by Iruka-sensei is truly the highest form of honor.”

“The highest, is it?” Iruka chuckles, turning his head when Tenzou’s fingers gently grasps him by his chin. “And here I thought being the Hokage or even the Daimyo would be highest form of honor.” 

“Not to me,” the words brushes over Iruka’s lips. “You’re all the good that’s worth fighting for. I’m stronger, focused, because I have you.”

Iruka remembers lying on his back after that, his quizzes forgotten as Tenzou makes love to him languidly in the middle of their living room, their foreheads pressed together as their bodies rock against each other in a slow rhythm. Iruka remembers coming while looking into Tenzou’s eyes, drowning in the love reflected in its dark depths and thinking, _I can’t imagine a world without you._

*

Sometimes, the memories leave Iruka waking up in a tangled, heated mess in their bed, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He would wake up flushed, painfully aroused, as the memory of Tenzou’s hands on his body, his cock buried deep into him, the warmth of his breath on Iruka’s neck continues to play in Iruka’s mind.

He remembers Tenzou coming home completely buzzed from a soldier pill and adrenalin, tension coiling under the black stretch of his uniform. It doesn’t happen very often; Iruka can count the amount of times Tenzou has come home like this over the years in one hand. Iruka has learned to tell when a mission has gone favorable or unfavorable from Tenzou’s mannerisms alone. This one had not been too favorable. Tenzou is quieter than normal, barely says a word from the moment he enters the house dusty, grimy, and bloody. He says nothing when he pulls his mask off, presses his lips to Iruka’s temple, long and lingering, not exactly present in the moment, before he disappears into the bathroom to clean up.

Iruka remembers haphazardly folding the soiled ANBU uniform, stuffing it into a bag to be sanitized later, getting it off the bathroom floor when Tenzou’s hands snap on his wrist, _yanking_ him up and into his arms in one strong, very forceful pull. Tenzou’s arms are around Iruka, tight, a shudder going through his wet, clean, naked body as his presses his face into Iruka’s neck. Iruka stands like that, arms around his husband’s shoulders, as Tenzou grounds himself, breaths deep, measured, a little shaky towards the end of each exhale, as his hands begins to trace the lines of Iruka’s body -- from the arch of his lower back all the way up to Iruka’s shoulders, cold, wet fingers carding through Iruka’s hair.

“Miss me?” Iruka remembers asking, gentle, soft, barely even a whisper.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tenzou _breathes,_ his next inhale shuddering as he pulls back and cups Iruka’s face in his hands. “Gods, _yes_ …”

Iruka remembers closing the distance between them, his mouth falling open as he slants it over Tenzou’s mouth, swallowing his shuddering breath. Tenzou is drawn inwards, like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something he doesn’t want, like he’s trying to force the darkest parts of him down, away from the comforts and the light of their home. Iruka remembers how Tenzou’s fingers shake, how his grip gets bruisingly hard in moments only to be released so suddenly, as if Tenzou is remembering that he shouldn’t be doing any of this here, in the sanctity of their home, like he doesn’t want to taint the one good thing in his life. 

Iruka remembers drawing backwards, grasping Tenzou by the hair, watching him flinch under his grip and says, “I’m only going to say this once. I’m not made of glass. If you want to _fuck_ me, Tenzou, then you should _fuck_ me.”

Tenzou’s pupils had blown wide in that moment, his parted lips trembling as he exhales slowly, measuredly. 

“Just let go,” Iruka murmurs. “Let it all go…”

Tenzou does.

It’s rough, wild, almost beast like in its ferocity, the way Tenzou uses Iruka’s body that night. He tears through everything, leaving marks that would scar, biting through flesh as he breathes harshly through his nose, pushing his cock into Iruka’s body that isn’t even fully stretched, everything rushed, and quick, as if he’s fucking Iruka in some dark, god forsaken place and they only had minutes to spare. Tenzou’s cock drives into Iruka’s body without mercy, bringing with it a burn that Iruka knows will last for more than a week. Tenzou’s teeth leave welts that resemble wounds in the daylight, dark, bruised, raised skin that’s brushed with a tinge of yellow and green. He pushes Iruka down on all fours, comes with a choked groan that bounces off loudly within the walls of their bedroom, just as he releases his hold around Iruka’s neck and _shoves_ him off his cock, everything in him shaking as Iruka remains curled on his side, unable to quite blink the ferocity of his orgasm from his eyes while Tenzou catches his breath, sprawled on the bed in a half seated position, his feet dangling over the edge.

Iruka remembers pushing himself up on shaky arms, remembers moving over his husband, straddling his hips and looking into Tenzou’s still very much wild eyes, the side effects of the soldier pill yet to be worn off.

“Again,” Iruka whispers, watching as Tenzou’s eyes drop to his lips, beads of sweat glistening around his temples. 

Tenzou’s hands are on his neck, wrapping like a vice as he sits Iruka on his lap, their mouth crashing hotly as Tenzou squeezes the breath out of Iruka, his other hand wrapping around the length of Iruka’s hair and suddenly, Iruka is being filled with cock again, as he stares not into the eyes of his husband, but into the eyes of a murderer, a killer, the bringer of genocide, a loyal weapon. Iruka watches as Cat sneers at him, teeth gleaming in the dark as his hips snaps into quick, harsh, brutal thrusts, driving his cock as deep as it can go into Iruka’s body, like he’s calculating where his strikes should land, the most effective way to inflict maximum damage.

It’s cold, eerie, to look at the face of his husband and see a stranger.

To be fucked by the _thing_ that has the Shodaime’s DNA coursing through his veins, to be at the receiving end of the hands that destroys. All that raw power coming out in a deep, rumbling _growls_ from the darkest pits of Tenzou being in cold waves of desire that is base, so animalistic that Iruka wonders, as he alters between consciousness and losing consciousness from the lack of air, with Tenzou’s fingers tightening around his throat, if his body can take the abuse of being ripped apart like this. 

The sick part of it all is that Iruka enjoys it. 

Gods, how he _enjoys_ it. 

He relishes in the twistedness of it all, takes it as it comes with open arms because this dark, sinister, murderous side of Tenzou is also a part of him. It’s been conditioned to him. This is what Tenzou was made for, this is what his servitude to Konoha means. This malevolent half that’s barely human in its focus, in its objective existence to destroy and win at all costs, all for the sake of Konoha -- it’s Tenzou too. 

And Iruka doesn’t fear him. He loves all of him, in whatever wonderful or ugly shape he may be, whether he is Tenzou, Yamato-taichou or Cat.

Iruka isn’t sure what it says about him to enjoy being ripped apart like this, to be reduced to nothing more than a body, a vessel for Tenzou’s cock, his anger, his frustration at possibly a failed mission, the magnanimous domino effect that might have later -- he doesn’t care.

Iruka remembers passing out with an ache in his body that doesn’t fade for _days._

He remembers waking up late the next morning to Tenzou looking at him with a stricken expression. Iruka doesn’t blame him. Iruka’s body looks like it’s gone through a few rounds of torture, bruised, welt marks swollen, hideous.

“How are you feeling?” Tenzou asks, whisper soft, shame in his voice, his throat bobbing once as he swallows. 

Iruka smiles brightly however, happy to see Tenzou look a lot more relaxed, the effects of the soldier pill finally gone. He turns to lie on his back, stretching over the soiled sheets that he should throw away at this point. Iruka reaches up to press a bruised hand on Tenzou’s face, thumb brushing over the corner of Tenzou’s lips.

“Good. I feel very _good.”_

And it wasn’t a lie.

*

Then there are others. 

Memories of lying on a blanket in a stretch of green, right under the stars, as Tenzou kisses Iruka and makes love to him, lips upturned in a cocky smirk as Iruka’s voice echoes throughout the field when he comes.  
  
Memories of their bodies pressed against each other under the warm shower, with Tenzou’s cock brushing against the back of Iruka’s throat, his head floating in the clouds as the heat of Tenzou’s orgasm burns down his throat.

Memories of Tenzou kissing him awake in the morning, peppering them all over his neck and shoulder, just so that he can smile down at him, teeth peeking out from between his lips to say, good morning, Iruka-sensei~

Memories of them walking through Tea Avenue, after Tenzou had come to the mission desk to pick Iruka up. He had come into the empty room, softly whispering, what time do you get off? I’d like to take you out to dinner. Iruka had responded with a cocked eyebrow saying, I’m a married man, you know? You can’t just come up and ask me things like this, Shinobi-san. Tenzou had smirked a little lopsidedly, the amusement spreading to an outright grin as he leans over the desk, one hand braced on the table, the other caressing loose strands of Iruka’s hair by the nape of his neck and said, It’s a good thing your husband thinks the world of you then, Iruka-sensei. Tenzou had kissed him, languid, deep, uncaring that anyone may walk in at anytime, unrestrained in his affection, want and love for Iruka. It had left Iruka speechless when he pulls away, pecking a kiss on his nose, saying he’d wait for him outside, that they’re going to try Aragawa’s, see what the fuss about the new place is all about.

Memories of Tenzou getting tipsy at Kakashi’s surprise birthday party he and Iruka gets invited to. Memories of how Tenzou had gone up to the stage and sang a duet with Gai, an off-tune, ridiculously romantic power ballad that has the entire bar roaring with laughter, Iruka included. Iruka remembers turning to Kakashi that night, a breathless laugh in his throat, his smile as wide as the sky, and says, thank you for having me tonight, this has been _amazing_. Kakashi had looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than the bar, responding with a deadpanned, at least he’s not drunk yet; that’s just him being tipsy. It’s wonderful, Iruka had huffed amusedly in return, only to crow in surprise when Tenzou had appeared behind him, arms around him, face in his neck asking what is he talking to Kakashi-senpai about. Iruka knew that the right thing to do was to take Tenzou home and put him to bed. Instead, Iruka had cheekily handed him another colorful cocktail, and another, and another, and finally got to see Tenzou sing his drunk ass on stage, complete with a dance number that is not at all flattering. It was dorky, cooky, and so undeniably adorable that Iruka had laughed himself sick. Did you really have to give him those drinks? Kakashi had asked, exasperated but also looking on in amusement. Iruka had simply beamed and said, I am going to remind him of this moment forever. _Forever_ , Kakashi-san. Tenzou had chosen that moment to topple off the stage rather ungracefully, taking with him a few chairs and tables that results in the entire bar of drunken shinobis cheering and applauding. Iruka knows he should go help his husband; instead he had doubled up in a wheezing laugh, so much so that Kakashi must have thought he was getting sick, because Kakashi’s hands is helping him straighten off the floor. Iruka knows Tenzou is fine; when he tells him what happened the next day, Tenzou had looked at him with betrayed, wide, puppy eyes that _almost_ works.

Memories of Iruka wrapped in Tenzou’s arms, as they stand under the shadows of the gazebo in their garden, their bodies gently swaying in a private, slow dance, as they watch the village glitter in front them under the moonlight.

The waiting gets harder each time he remembers.

And before Iruka realizes it, the last of summer’s heat wave is over; seven months has gone by. 

He’s a little surprised that he hasn’t felt the heat of it at all. 

*

Then there are the days where the waiting has become unbearable. Days where getting out of bed becomes a challenge when the better choice between carrying out a obligated duty and losing himself in the comforts of his memories is obvious.

On these particular days, the thought of no longer wanting to be part of a world where the sun no longer rises over Iruka’s horizon is strong.

They don’t come often. They’re rare.

But when they come, they hit hard.

Iruka wakes up to rays of golden late summer sunshine that still remains as cold as ice, its warmth never quite penetrating the surface of Iruka’s skin. He closes his eyes, burrowing deeper into Tenzou’s pillow, shivering in the invisible cold, inhaling the last of Tenzou’s barely perceptible scent, clinging to the last of it, and thinks that this has to be the longest wait he’s gone through, that if I can’t be with you now, then I’ll wait here, in our garden, until you come and take me away. Someday. I hope you come soon. Waiting for you has never been easy.

*

Something happens around the eight month of Iruka’s waiting. It comes in the shape of Hatake Kakashi, knocking on his door one late evening, disrupting Iruka from his unending count of the seconds that ticks by his existence. Kakashi standing at his doorstep in nothing but his jounin uniform, the robe and hat nowhere in sight, with something tucked under his arm makes everything in Iruka plummet to the ground.

The moment he’s been dreading is finally here.

Iruka wordlessly holds the door open for Kakashi. Kakashi is quiet as he steps into the living room, taking a seat on the modular sofa, setting down the wrapped object tucked under his arm on the coffee table. 

Iruka doesn’t join him immediately, not until he’s got two cups of steaming tea ready on a tray. He takes his time, using the excuse of being a decent host to Tenzou’s friend, comrade and his leader to calm himself, to try to push down the grief that is threatening to consume him whole. It sits in the middle of his stomach, spinningspinningspinning, growinggrowingrowing, like a tumor riddled with disease, threatening to explode and leave Iruka limbless, directionless, hopeless. The tray is shaking, the cups making soft noises as it wobbles on the tray that Iruka sets down carefully, taking a seat adjacent to Kakashi.

Kakashi isn’t even looking at him, his eyes fixed on the rippling surface of the tea on the table, everything about him rigid, the lines of his body pulled taut. It’s as if any moment now, he’s ready to snap. Iruka watches him carefully pull his mask down, baring his face for Iruka to see, as he picks up the tea cup to take a sip, uncaring if its scalding hot or not, a pink tongue brushing over the tiers of lips before he swallows. 

Iruka knows he’s breathing hard, knows he’s shaking in his seat watching Kakashi come to him, open, vulnerable, apologetic, to be the one delivering somber news.  
  
No words are said as Kakashi undos the cloth wrapping, revealing the broken pieces of Cat’s mask, the bent, almost dilapidated right arm guard, Tenzou’s sword and one of his utility packs still secured to his belt that is ripped, empty, the fastenings damaged. There are two small sealed plastic bags filled with dark fabric scraps, pieces of Tenzou’s uniform and the ANBU white vest that’s stained a dark crimson. The sword is dirty, the scabbard wedged with dried pieces of mud, or rock, or something. There’s a bit of acrid smell radiating from the broken pieces of equipment on the table, algae, blood, retained moisture that hasn’t had the chance to dry properly. Iruka knows that it’s Tenzou’s sword because of the slight bend on the scabbard, a barely perceptible dip in the handle that Tenzou had used to block an oncoming, devastating blow. 

“They found these at the bottom of the river,” Kakashi mutters, his voice thick with an unspoken apology. “They found the bodies of their pursuers, but not Tenzou. The trail went cold. There’s a possibility that he -- he may have been washed down the river towards the sea. The area is known for its currents…”

Iruka feels cold. So, so cold all of a sudden, his arms going around his middle as he continues to stare at the broken mask. A large chunk is missing, a whole piece of the ear and upper right corner, all the way down to the cheek. There’s a series of webbed cracks throughout the once, smooth and lustrous gleam of porcelain. Now it lies there, a remnant of its wearer, broken, damaged, the rest of it probably buried somewhere at the bottom of the Southern Ocean if Tenzou has drifted all the way to the end of that river network. Iruka knows the map by heart, knows where those rivers would eventually open up to. It’s hard to track scents when water is involved. Iruka knows the mechanics of it.

Kakashi didn’t have to explain. He didn’t even have to do any of this, when Iruka knows he has far more important things to do, a village to run. Kakashi didn’t have to play the role of an errand boy.

“There’s still a few more months left,” Iruka says softly, unable to quite mourn yet. He blinks away the telltale film of grief from his eyes, looking up to meet Kakashi’s gaze with a little difficulty. “M-Maybe he’ll show up, you know?”

Kakashi doesn’t answer but the look in his eyes, the way his lips pressed to a thin line, the way he slides his gaze away to stare at the mask on the table speaks volumes. 

*  
  


Iruka becomes an existence after that moment, losing time in his living room with Tenzou’s mask cradled in his hands, staring at the jagged sharp edges that he traces with his fingertips. It cuts through the skin of Iruka’s fingers when he traces it, stains the mask with blotches of red that drips from Iruka’s finger tips.

It doesn’t hurt. 

A lot of things have stopped hurting now. 

There is only emptiness, hopelessness, a never ending numbness and a memory of a dearly beloved husband that most likely, realistically, is never coming back.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to flex my Iruka-muse. I used to be able to write him very easily. Nowadays, it's a real struggle. I am not sure why but hey, looking at the length of the above, not bad for an attempt. Part of the reason I am writing this story is because for over a year and half now, writing Iruka has become a touchy subject for me.
> 
> And I'm tired of it. So there we go. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts -- I'm terrible with answering reviews. But I do read every one of them and I love your reactions to some scenes/dialogues/etc :)
> 
> Feel free to say hi @ tumblr: pinkcatharsis


	3. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Kakashi becomes a frequent visitor for tea. 

They don’t really talk much. 

They just sit in silence, as they both drink their tea. Sometimes Iruka would work through the silence -- grading papers, preparing his lessons for the week, writing reports for each student. Sometimes he’d just stare out the window, with Mango as a warmer on his lap that brings little to almost no comfort from the permanent cold that surrounds Iruka. 

Through it all, Kakashi is merely a guarding sentinel on the sofa, unmoving, his gaze fixed on a point on their living room window, just until his tea cup is empty. He would then tug his mask up, his gaze brushing over Iruka before he leaves as quietly as he had arrived, the tension remaining tight throughout the line of his entire body.

Iruka knows guilt when he sees it. He spends nights like these studying Kakashi’s features in this cold, quiet color washed world of his. There’s really not much to do anymore but watch his leader, Tenzou’s closest friend and comrade, sit there on the sofa with his face for the world to see, silver lashes lowered, a storm lurking in the depths of his gray eyes, Kakashi’s stubble rippling with each clench and release of his jaw.

Iruka hasn’t figured out how to tell Kakashi that he doesn’t have to be guilty about this. 

It’s not his fault; Tenzou understood the risks. He understood duty.

*

On the twenty-first of December, when Konoha is blanketed in gleaming white snow, Kakashi knocks on Iruka’s door, bits of snow clinging to the drooping, puff of silver hair and his shoulders. Iruka lets him in, begins the ritual of preparing tea, setting it on a tray, carrying it to the coffee table, sitting next to Kakashi. 

Kakashi pulls out three small sealed bags from his utility pack filled with scraps of fabric barely the length of a finger long.

“The pack found this…” Kakashi’s voice comes out strange, thick, a little strangled around the edges. “I haven’t stopped looking for him, Iruka. And I won’t.”

Something rips past Iruka’s throat, a strangled noise that he forces back down by clamping a hand up to his mouth, silencing the rest of the grief that’s threatening to spill out of him. He ducks his head, nodding slowly, muffling the scream that wants to tear itself free from his throat. Iruka doesn’t dare look up, doesn't dare meet the heavy weight of Kakashi’s gaze brushing over him with guilt that’s almost bitter to the taste.

“Thank you,” Iruka manages to say instead, the syllables strangled as he drops his hand to his lap and looks up at the shattered look all over Kakashi’s face. He’s not sure when he’s started to learn to read the emotions on Kakashi’s face except that he has. Kakashi is probably the only person he spends time around with these days, during these nightly tea rituals of theirs. “For not giving up on him.”

“I’m sorry for putting you through this,” Kakashi says, the words whisper soft.

“He’s told me about this moment countless times. He’s prepared me for this for years. I just -- I didn’t think -- now that it’s happening -- I just -- I don’t know.” Iruka shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“He would want you to remain strong.” The words are barely perceptible in its softness. 

“Then he needs to come back!” Iruka lashes out, hot, unbidden, his grief, his barely existing hope swirling into the easiest thing it can come out as - anger. “He’s got twenty fucking days!”

*

But the twenty days go by in the space of what feels like twenty heartbeats.

Tenzou doesn’t come home.

Kakashi doesn’t find his body.

It is Kakashi who comes by, on the coldest night of January, with an envelope with the ANBU seal over the flap. He slides it across the table towards Iruka. Iruka who carefully tears it open with fingers that refuses to stop shaking as he reads the schedule to finalize the procedure of officially marking Tenzou as deceased.

(“They’ll call you in to sign a few forms. If there is a body, they’ll lead you to the crematorium, give you the chance to say your goodbye. If there is no body, then you just sign the forms and then they’ll give you the mask as a sign of respect. My name will be on the memorial stone within twenty-four hours,” Tenzou says, cheek pressed against Iruka’s temple, as his arms tightened around the shudder that goes through Iruka’s frame in that moment, all those years ago, before the war, before everything. “I know it sounds a little systematic, but when that happens, I want you to remember that you are the best thing that’s happened to me.”)

It takes place at seven in the morning, in a windowless office that has only one desk. The only ones present is Kakashi in his Hokage robes and hat, Iruka, and five other masked ANBU members along with a clerk who remains maskless. Iruka recognizes three of them, knows them to be Tenzou’s teammates -- Sparrow, Stag and Raccoon. They’ve made their appearances over the years at least once when delivering news on Tenzou’s delay, or escorting Iruka to the ANBU medical wing to where his husband is lying injured. 

The other two are strangers, masks Iruka doesn’t recognize.

The procedure is quiet, with the clerk breaking out the seal from an envelope that contains a death certificate and a two paged consent form that Iruka doesn’t even read. He signs his name and shinobi registration number in the allotted space, slides the document back to the clerk and watches him seal away the forms. A box is then pulled out from behind the desk. The clerk offers the box with both hands outstretched, tight lipped, expression placid.

Iruka takes it, the weight of it heavy with the finality of the thing he’s dreaded the most. Tucked in the box is Cat’s mask, gleaming, polished, whole, something Tenzou has never worn, a replica of the broken, barely held together pieces Iruka had back home, lying over Konoha’s folded flag; it’s patriotism wrapped in heroic salutations. They’re all empty gestures, all a performance rather than anything else.

Not a word is spoken.

There’s really nothing to be said.

Through it all, Iruka doesn’t shed a tear.

*

On January 11, at the crack of dawn, Iruka stands before the memorial staring at the new name that’s been recently carved into the stone. 

Umino Tenzou.

He stands there for hours, his breath misting in the winter air, as the white lily petals in his hands turn icy cold, the tips of it curling inwards, shying away from the bitter, cruel air. 

It’s only when a gloved hand, practically a furnace in its warmth, comes to rest on Iruka’s shoulders gently that he remembers that he should have been at the Academy hours ago. Iruka moves with a stiffness that _aches,_ his toes and fingers cold as he wordlessly follows Kakashi home that is no longer a home. 

Iruka still doesn’t cry.  
  


*

The news spreads eventually.

Team Seven is the first to pass by to pay their respects, the mood sombre and quiet. Team Gai comes by with Lee pushing Gai’s wheelchair. Shikamaru, Ino and Chouji drops by as well, along with Hinata and a distant relative that introduces herself as Hyuuga Chiharu. Iruka looks up at her when she speaks, recognizing her voice immediately -- Sparrow. She’s small, almost adolescent in her features, an apology gleaming over the surface of her Byakugan, a knit between her brows. Iruka smiles at her, takes her hand in his, and thanks her sincerely for stopping by. Tells her how much he appreciates the gesture.

Because Iruka does.

A burly, haggard looking man comes by later in the evening, accompanied by a slender blond. They introduce themselves as Namiashi Ryu and Yamanaka Kosuke. Iruka knows their voices, knows that they’re both Stag and Raccoon. They don’t say much, not while they drink their tea and not until they’re leaving when Kosuke turns to look over his shoulder and says: 

“I am the most privileged to have served under Buntaichou’s command.” 

Iruka isn’t sure how to respond to that. So he simply nods, as the crevice of loss in him continues to sink deeper within.  
  


*

Other Jounins and Chuunins come by to pay their respects too, some Iruka recognizes as individuals he's conversed with in the past within the mission room, some he meets for the first time. All of them address Tenzou as Yamato. 

  
Iruka’s friends come during the later hours, when they’re sure no one will be visiting to offer their condolences. They eat takeout bento boxes in relative silence, with Iruka barely touching a thing on his bento. It seems rather unappetizing even though it has a lot of his favorites. Then again, everything turns to ash in his mouth, much like how everything around him is mostly in varying shades of gray these days.

“Iruka, I don’t mean to sound like a nagging person, but you really need to take care of yourself,” Izumo murmurs softly, a warm hand coming to rest in between Iruka’s shoulder blades.

Iruka knows what his friends sees: they sees a far more slender teacher, with dark circles under his eyes, with wrists that seems far too delicate to belong to a man. They see dried lips and dull hair, cracking fingernails and all the tell-tale signs of someone who skips meals too frequently. Maybe they too, will notice how the uniform hangs on Iruka’s shoulders as opposed to it fitting just right. But they also see a pleasant face, eyes wide open but also shut and hidden from the world, something that betrays no secret nor emotion. 

What they see is what a good soldier is, in all its textbook definition.

They see nothing because Tenzou had taken everything that mattered to him, somewhere far away, probably decaying at the bottom of the Southern Sea.

“You’re right,” Iruka answers politely. “Of course, I will.”

Iruka pretends not to notice how four of his friends exchange looks at his response. He pretends that their gazes don’t linger on him when he helps them clear the table, his own bento box ending up in the fridge, something he’ll probably end up throwing three days later because it’s not like he’s going to be touching it again any time soon.

Their presence doesn’t linger longer than necessary. Iruka sees them off by the genkan, a pleasant expression on his face, neutral, like how he’s noticed it has been for the past three days since the so called ‘service’ at the ANBU headquarters.

“Listen,” Kotetsu steps up into Iruka’s space, fingers wrapping around the curve of his shoulders. “You need anything, and I mean anything at all, you come to us, okay? Anytime.”

“Thank you,” Iruka nods, a part of him genuinely appreciative of the sentiment behind the words. He doesn’t think it’s quite necessary because he’ll be fine.

He has to be.

*

Kakashi doesn’t stop coming by for tea. It isn’t as often as before but Kakashi always finds the time to stop by at least twice a week. 

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know?” Iruka tells him one night, as he looks at village glittering under the night sky past the glass windows of the living room. “Even though I appreciate your company.”

“Maa, the tea is quite good,” Kakashi returns.

It’s a stupid excuse. Iruka isn’t making anything remotely impressive. The tea leaves he uses isn’t anything special either.

Iruka doesn’t bring up the subject again.

He doesn’t know what Kakashi would get out of spending quiet time with him. 

*  
  
Iruka spends a meticulous amount of time preserving everything around him that reminds him of Tenzou. He spends hours caring for the garden around their house and polishing the wooden gazebo and benches. But spring comes and none of the flowering plants truly blossom. Iruka examines them every morning, watches the bud form over the course of several weeks only to watch them shrivel and never really bloom. 

He changes the soil, gets a special spray from the Yamanaka flower shop, even solicits Ino’s advice on what else he can do to preserve the garden. He follows a strict gardening regimen but nothing blooms. Iruka pretends that the anxiety in his chest isn’t anxiety, that he isn’t losing parts of himself, coming apart at the seams at the garden gradually slipping away from him too.

The garden doesn’t flower, but at least they remain mostly green.

It becomes an obsession, a thing that fuels a restlessness that robs Iruka of sleep and focus. It leaves mostly lethargic in the mornings and exhausted in the afternoons. He finds himself spending nights in the garden, bundled up in Tenzou’s hoodies and pants, sitting there on the grass and praying, over and over again to whatever deity that may be listening to please, _don’t take this away from me too._

Iruka should have known that his prayers would fall on deaf ears.

He should have known better than to believe anyone out there would actually listen to him.

*

Summer comes with an unforgiving heat wave and a full bloom of hibiscus and sunflowers. It’s the only spot of color in the garden that’s mostly starting to turn a little yellow around the edges. It isn’t much but it makes hope swell in Iruka’s chest, as he kneels there before the small bed of flowers, under the heat of the sun, shaking fingers brushing over velvety soft petals. It’s the only bit of color Iruka sees in his world.

Two weeks in, Iruka finds a dried up and dead sunflower amidst the flowerbed. The sight of it, how it lies crumpled, drooped forward, all life gone from its stems, the vivid yellow petals now nothing more than a shade of sepia, shatters something in him, unleashing a tidal wave of something hot, ferocious and ugly. It’s like the entire garden is mocking him, reminding him of a loss so vast that nothing can even begin to fill the vacuum Tenzou had left behind. That a pathetic attempt at gardening, hoping for the eden to return, is a child’s dream. 

That it isn’t real. 

It’s useless. It’s all so fucking useless.

Iruka’s chakra spikes briefly, as he reaches forward with his hand to just uproot everything, to just save himself the grief of watching Tenzou’s garden die too.

Except there’s a hand on his wrist, firm, tight, stopping him from doing something he’d regret. 

Iruka looks up to find an ANBU looking down at him, a solid black shadow under the glare of the sun, the face obscured by a hood, the porcelain around the jawline gleaming. It makes Iruka bring a hand up at the presence that he doesn’t fully recognize, can’t quite make up what the mask is. 

“What are you doing here?” Iruka snaps, getting on his feet and yanking his wrist free from the ANBU’s hold. “Did he send you? To keep an eye on me?”

The ANBU does not answer. It only stands there, hands by its sides, like some sort of sentinel, it’s head dipped, mask tucked away from Iruka’s line of vision, as Iruka’s sanity start to come apart and slip out of its tight and controlled confines.

“Look, you better stay the hell out of my garden! I don’t want you ruining things more than it already is. Find a different fucking perch for all I care but stay off my garden! Do you understand?” The ANBU doesn’t answer, neither confirms nor denies that it has heard Iruka’s demand. “Hey! Are you even listening?”

Iruka reaches forward, his hand moving to wrap around the cloaked shoulder. 

He grasps nothing but thin air.

The garden is empty, devoid of any presence.

*

When Iruka opens his eyes, it is pitch black and a little before eight in the evening. He finds himself staring at the carpet fibers and the underside of the sofa, his body covered in cold sweat in the thickness of the summer heat, even when every bit of him remains cold. Iruka does not know why he is on the floor or how he had come to lie in the position he is in. He is sore and stiff from lying in an awkward position, like he’s been beaten down and moving _hurts_. When he tries to shift from his curled position, a moan leaves him and for a moment as he shuts his eyes painfully, so he can measure his breath and try to brace himself to undo the kinks in his body that he has spectacularly managed to give himself.

Iruka opens his eyes and suddenly sees a pair of boots on the other side of the sofa and he bolts up off the floor so fast to look at the room only to find no one there.

Iruka stretches his senses out and feels nothing.

Iruka thinks he is really losing his mind, that he is imagining what he had seen earlier.

Lack of sleep and fatigue is blamed as Iruka moves to the bathroom to peel off the sweat stained hoodie he had on, dumping it into the laundry hamper as he draws himself a hot bath. Iruka is undoing the knot of his ponytail when he notices reddened skin around his cheeks. They’re tender to the touch, a fresh sunburn that makes Iruka wonder how long has he been under the heat for. 

Iruka frowns at himself, bringing cold hands hands up to his eyes as he reminds himself that this is not the time to be reckless. That he cannot allow this grief to take the reigns because all it takes is for him to trip over one thing before his ability to function for the summer classes and the mission desk gets questioned. 

Iruka sucks in two lungfuls of breath before he turns to draw the hot bath.   
  
It doesn’t do much to keep him warm, but it helps relax the knots in his body his earlier sleeping position. Iruka tries to recall what he had been doing prior to falling asleep on the living room floor, tries to remember when did he even come inside from the garden. Staring up at the steam wafting up to the bathroom ceiling, Iruka can’t seem to find an answer. 

Frustration bubbles up as Iruka cups water between his palms and runs it over his face, flinching as the burn on his cheeks stings. He sucks in a deep breath and lowers himself down on his back in the large tub, keeping his eyes closed as the world around him drowns out to nothing but the sound of his steady heartbeat, pulsing under his ribcage. 

It’d be easy to just not get back up anymore, to open his mouth and let water fill his nose and throat. Was Tenzou even conscious when he hit the river at the bottom of the ravine? Did he see shadows and the skies that seemed so far out of his reach when he looked up as the life drained out of him? Or was he staring at a rocky and sandy bed, watching it turn red as his wounds bled into the river? Was it cold? Freezing? Did the water feel like a thousand needles piercing him at the same time? Or did he land on ice first, cracked it and slowly sank into the bitter cold abyss underneath?

It must have hurt so much. It must have been torture to have winter fill his lungs, to asphyxiate with ice around his throat, to watch the world go black and not being able to do anything about it because your body is broken, shattered from a fall so high that even trying to paddle your feet to swim for the surface would be impossible.

Iruka wonders what Tenzou saw in those last few moments before his world had gone gold. Iruka wonders if Tenzou remembers how he is beloved, how when he closes his eyes, surrendering to the pull of death, he is taking with him everything that Iruka holds dear. 

Iruka wonders if Tenzou saw him, if he had any regrets, if he wished that he had fought just a little stronger.

Iruka opens his eyes and gasps when he sees a shadow looming over him, hooded, dark, the ANBU mask marked with green and red around the temples. Before Iruka can recognize the mask, it gets obscured by the sudden rise of air bubbles as bathwater floods Iruka’s nose and throat, making him reach out around the edges of the tub, his grip slipping as he tries to quell the shock and panic at seeing someone suddenly there, beside him, in the bathroom, in his house, when he had sensed no presence, no one, nothing. 

A hand wraps around his wrist, just as Iruka manages to secure a hold around the rim of the tub and pull himself out and upright, sloshing water everywhere, his loud _gasp_ filling the space of the quiet bathroom. Iruka chokes, his eyes watering as he gags out bathwater and saliva, the sound of it so loud in the empty house, echoing all the way past their bedroom and into the living room like poison.

Iruka lets out a frustrated curse and ends up gagging again, fist is slamming on one side of the tub and he has to catch his breath before he straightens to take a good look around the bathroom, his senses stretching. 

Unsatisfied that he isn’t sensing anyone, iruka scrambles out of the tub, grabbing a towel and storming past the bedroom and into the living room, his chakra roiling as the irritation gives way to anger at having his privacy invaded like that, at this assigned guard by the Hokage daring to step into the sanctity of his home when clearly, it had no right to. 

Unless it is part of the order by the Hokage.

The living room is empty, the garden devoid of any presence save for the mild chirp of the evening crickets. 

Iruka stands there, dripping wet as he pushes the hair off his face and decides that if this ANBU guard damages his garden further or steps inside his house one more time, he is going to give the Hokage a piece of his mind.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It's long way down before we can climb back up, amrite? 
> 
> Still struggling with Iruka but, progress! Small victories.
> 
> As always, thank you for giving this rare-pair a chance! For reading this far! I appreciate your thoughts! You can yell at me @ tumblr: pinkcatharsis


	4. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

By mid-July, the summer classes in the Academy concludes. 

It leaves Iruka with free time that he utilizes to up his training regimen. It gives him a little clarity, gives him something else to focus on, channel his frustrations to as he tears through target after target in the training fields or, if he’s feeling particularly gnarly, the Forest of Death. He polishes up his chakra control, works on jutsus he hasn’t had the luxury of time to work on. 

The change leaves Iruka standing stronger with more strength in his body than he’s felt in a long while. 

(I am a good soldier.)

Which works in his favor because by the time the tenth of August rolls around, Iruka is physically prepared to undergo a C-rank solo mission. It’s straight forward, nothing more than transporting important documents for one of Fire’s business tycoons to their partner in Wind. It’s more of an arduous journey because of the heat rather than anything else, but Iruka doesn’t mind it so much. He has the time to himself, running past the lush greenery of Fire, through the watery terrain of River and finally into endless stretch of golden sand dunes of Wind. Iruka has calculated it meticulously enough that he knows it’ll take him four days to complete the journey and the mission that by the time he gets back to the village, it’ll be the twelfth of August, two days after Tenzou’s birthday. And because he’s doing nothing but running across borders, he should be able to pick up another mission within twenty four hours. The break in between is more than enough time for him to check in on the garden, make sure none of the flowerbeds are drying up.

Iruka doesn’t have any lofty ambitions in increasing his mission count. He’s past the age where that had been his sole goal.

He also can’t exactly run away from the world that reminds him too much of Tenzou.

So running for C-ranks seems to be the next smartest thing to do. The productive thing to do.

At least this way, he’s still serving the village.

*

Tenzou’s birthday comes and goes. 

Iruka almost doesn’t notice if he hadn’t stopped to look up at the sky on his way Wind. 

He wouldn't have remembered how last year, he and Tenzou were sitting outside in their garden, under the shade and gentle swing of their suspended garden bench. It had just finished raining, their garden still glistening from the rainfall, water droplets reflecting like a billion scattered diamonds across their little eden. Tenzou had an arm around the backrest of their bench, staring up at the night sky, an ankle propped over his knee. He had just returned from a mission, parts of his right arm wrapped in bandages, accompanied by three butterfly clips on his right temple. 

Iruka had knelt beside him, holding between his hand a small, iced cupcake, the only thing he could find in that very late hour since Tenzou wasn’t supposed to return for another three days. The candle ignites like fireworks, sizzles like a newborn star as Iruka holds it between his hands, offering it to Tenzou with a broad smile and said, “Make a wish?”

Tenzou had looked up at him, past the flickering of the sparkler candle.

“Not sure what to wish for when I have everything right here,” Tenzou said, affection brimming in his gaze, features alight with gold from the candle. Iruka remembers how handsome he had looked that night.

Iruka remembered not being able to breathe, with the way Tenzou had looked at him that night, achingly tender, honest. “There has to be something…”

Tenzou hums, as he looked down at the swirl of chocolate icing atop a vanilla sponge before he blew out the candle. It throws them into dim darkness, the light of the sky and village beyond their penthouse apartment a mere tender glow in the background, as Tenzou had reached out to tuck Iruka’s hair behind his ear, a small smile tugging around the corner of his lips.

Iruka remembers asking what Tenzou had wished for, as Tenzou dips his thumb over the icing, reaching forward to smear it over Iruka’s lips as he leans close and whispers right before Tenzou kissed him, “To have the strength to always come home to you, and that nothing would keep me away from you for too long.”

Iruka almost cries at the memory.

Almost howls like a wounded animal as he stops atop a tree branch, leaning heavily on a shoulder, shaking at the vividness of those words that clearly had been a lie. 

Wishes aren’t meant to come true. Wishes are things children make because they still haven’t learned that wishes are mere targets one paints around themselves, that at the end of the day, you have to hit that target right in the center.

Iruka knows this.

They don’t come true on their own.

It certainly didn’t come true for Tenzou because a little over a year and a half later, he still hasn’t come back.

*

Realistically, Iruka knows that his current pattern is not sustainable. 

He reaches his breaking point on his sixth solo mission, a journey that takes him all the way to Jungle. 

Given the rough terrain, it’s a seven day journey back and forth if Iruka chooses to minimize breaks in between. He makes the decision to take no breaks to ensure swift delivery of the sealed scroll; whatever breaks he may need can come once his mission is completed. If he plots his course right, he can spend the night in the port town of River to recuperate, and still not exceed the estimated completion days that comes with every mission. 

It’d be nice to overlook the ocean for a change; the Bay of Fire from River is apparently a spectacular sight to behold during the summer.

*

The scroll gets delivered without a hitch. 

Iruka pops a soldier pill and begins his journey back. 

It is a little before sunset by the time he crosses into River’s borders, and almost completely dark by the time he reaches the outskirts of the port town, pausing long enough to henge to a disarming civilian and completely disguising his uniform and forehead protector.

Iruka’s first stop is the market with the sole intention to procure cheaper food from the stalls. Under the sweltering evening heat, the market is drowning in a sea of people. There is not a single empty space between the stalls. Iruka walks through the crowd, amidst the chaotic noise of a lost child wailing for its mother, a customer haggling with a merchant, a man desperately looking for his missing dog, shopkeepers screaming out offers at the top of their voices to attract customers and the sound of crates being offloaded from a cart onto the store front. The heat within the market is a little stifling given the crowd, beads of sweat glistening on everyone’s forehead, their faces flushed as they attempt to try to cool themselves with fans made of magazines and newspapers. It’s a nightmare to walk through the market strip, with the salty odor of the sea mingling with the aroma of spices and the sweet smell of flowers coming from the florists. But Iruka takes it in stride, his gaze sweeping through some of the stalls, lingering on a few goods until he finds a food stall and settles for yakisoba and kushiyaki. He converses with the vendor as he forks over his payment, asking if she knows a place nearby that will provide cheap bed-space for the night. She is kind enough to direct his attention to a building, visible above the market lanterns, painted in garish yellow despite it’s old structure.

The building isn’t the only thing that catches Iruka’s attention.

Four stalls down is a man conversing with a fruit vendor, a cotton grey jinbei upon his shoulders, his fingers holding up a nectarine and two fingers up. Iruka would recognize the cut of that jawline anywhere; he’s spent years pressing his lips over the soft skin of Tenzou’s jaw and neck, just under the ear which would always make Tenzou exhale softly. He recognizes the short, spiky, tapered shade of brown hair, when he’s run his fingers through them, gripped them in passion, carded through them in affection whenever Tenzou wraps his arms around him. He knows that profile, knows the flex of that jawline, the scar under Tenzou’s neck that he had gotten a year ago, after a disastrous mission that left him in the hospital for a week. He knows the width of that shoulder, the strength in them, how it always looked good in a kimono or a yukata or even a wash worn shirt. 

He knows that presence, that steady, easy thrum of controlled power wrapped around a serene and polite expression, how it gives away nothing, not a hint of the ruthless, dark, soaking in blood weapon that lurks underneath.

Hope fills Iruka to the brim, robbing him of his breath, his chest suddenly expanding as wide as the sky, as he stares in a daze, his lips parting as Tenzou hands over two folded bills to the vendor in exchange for a paper bag of seasonal nectarines. The long wait, the grief of staring at a name carved on stone, the vast emptiness that Tenzou had left behind, the never ending spinning storm in the center of his chest comes to a sudden halt, as Iruka takes a deep breath, the sweetest, most fulfilling, real breath he’s had in a long, long time, his lips parting as his voice cuts across the noise of the market. 

“ _T_ _enzou!”_

The syllables slices through the air, the crowd around him parting, turning to look at him with curiosity, like a wave of water splitting in two. It lasts for two heartbeats, the ringing in Iruka’s ears going mute as he watches Tenzou walk away from the call of his name, walk the opposite end as opposed to responding to Iruka. 

Reality crashes down like a rain of showering glass, as the crowd returns to their bustle and Iruka takes off to chase after a man who should have heard him, should have recognized his name. In the sea of heads of men and women of all shapes and sizes, Iruka loses sight of Tenzou, loses sight of his husband in a grey jinbei. He bypasses the fruit vendor, watches him tuck the wad of bills into the front of his apron before Iruka turns to look ahead and sees nothing.

Iruka ducks into one of the alleys, climbing atop the building to be on higher ground, combing through the length of the market, leaping over beams and rooftop ledges, stretching his senses out as far as he can, searching for that small, flicker of light in his shadowed world where the sun had stopped rising the moment they had handed Iruka Cat’s mask over Konoha’s folded flag. 

Iruka reaches the very end of the market where it’s darker, where the smell of the ships’ diesel fuel, motor oil and pungent fish collides sharply with River’s lush greenery.

He follows the road down and up a small hill that opens up to a valley of farming lands, stretching as far as the eye can see. 

The ringing in his ears returns with a vengeance, his chest yawning even wider as Iruka sinks to his knees helplessly and wonders, if he had really seen Tenzou or if it’s just a figment of his imagination reminding him of a loss so great that staying busy, continuing to serve his village diligently will never take away the pain Tenzou had left behind. 

*

Iruka doesn’t cry.

He runs.

He runs until his legs, chest and throat burns from the exertion, strangling the scream that wants to tear past his throat, forcing it downdowndown, as his entire world gets thrown into a darker expanse.

He doesn’t stop running, even when he miscalculates the distance between his leaps and ends up taking a tumble from the treetops, an unfitting mistake for someone of his experience and rank. He lands wrong, twisting his left wrist when he tries to break the fall, the sharp pain shooting up like lightning, making him flinch and curl in the middle of the forest floor, his forehead on the warm, damp earth as he grits his teeth and shakes under the weight of the grief that has nowhere to go.

Iruka bites his lower lip, blinks away the involuntary tears from the sharp pain in his wrist -- it’s his wrist, it’s just his wrist, nothing more -- as he carefully straightens, pushing himself up from the forest floor to examine his wrist. He channels a little chakra into it, just enough to hopefully control the swelling before he carefully binds it. It takes a while to get the binding right, because the quakes going through Iruka’s body won’t stop, won’t allow his good hand to function steadily, when everything in him is barely held together as it is, when the scream that wants to break free is already louder than the hard drum of Iruka’s heart.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -- Iruka makes a fist slamming it on the ground once, twice, thrice, doesn’t stop until the skin around his knuckles tears, until the pain of that too forces him to _breathe_ through it. 

Iruka doesn’t know how long he remains like that on the forest floor, how long he stares at the hole on the ground, both wrists limp between his legs.

But Iruka gets up again, dusts the dirt off his knees and hands, and puts one foot in front of the other because that’s what Tenzou would have wanted.

*

“One day, I’m not going to make it,” Tenzou says, his voice barely above a whisper as he lies their bed on his back, staring up at the starry skies through the glass ceiling. 

Tenzou had been gone for almost five weeks; he had returned hanging off one of his teammates, barely coherent as poison coursed through his body, robbing him of color and bringing him millimeters close to death’s door. Iruka had not been able to keep his hands off him since he’s been discharged from the hospital. He had not been able to stop touching his husband, when his hands had been so cold, so lifeless under the sheets after going through rigorous rounds of healing.

“I know…” Iruka says thickly, a film of salt gathering around the corners of his eyes, as he stares at Tenzou’s profile, at the sharper cut of his jaw, the more prominent cheekbones that Iruka knows will fill out a little more as his recovery progresses. “B-But that day isn’t today yet.” 

Tenzou had turned to look at him, something so painfully tender and vulnerable in the depths of gaze, as he shifts to lie on his side, a warm, very much alive hand coming to rest over the curve of Iruka’s neck. Tenzou’s thumb swipes over corner of Iruka’s eyes, wiping away the gathering of tears. 

“I don’t think I can ever be prepared to lose you,” Iruka chokes, closing his eyes as he leans closer, wrapping an arm around Tenzou’s side, forehead pressing against the sharper jut of his collarbones. “I am not that strong. You’d think all these close calls would be enough practice -- but it’s -- it’s really not. I don’t think it’ll ever be enough. I’m not sure what I’d do if you…”

Iruka doesn’t say it. He closes his eyes, shuddering in the warmth of Tenzou’s firm, strong embrace.

“You serve,” Tenzou murmurs into his hair softly, “and take it one day at a time.” Tenzou pulls Iruka on top of him, cupping Iruka’s wet cheeks between his palms, a soft, almost apologetic smile tugging loosely around the corners of his lips. “You try to find some form of comfort, try to find some semblance of happiness in any way you can--” Iruka shakes his head, shakes it like he doesn’t want to hear this nonsense, this thing about a possibility of moving on from the only love he wants and ever will want. Tenzou gentle hold on Iruka’s face goes firm, stopping Iruka from shaking his head any further as he brings their foreheads together. “-- you _try_. And remember that it’s only a matter of time before I see you again. That you will always be my world.” 

Iruka cries that night, being held almost bruisingly tight in the arms of a husband he nearly lost to a scratch of a fucking shuriken. Something barely even noticeable.

*

Iruka lands on the patio of the front garden, collapsing on his knees as his breaths come out ragged, heated, the afternoon sun a blistering ball of heat over his head. His form casts a long elongated shadow over the green grass and cobblestones, the tips of it brushing over the edge of the gazebo and flowerbeds of sunflowers and hibiscus.

Iruka notices how his shadow elongates further because of the presence of the hooded shadow looming over those flower beds, staring at the wilted leaves and curled, color washed, dried petals. 

It takes minutes to register what Iruka is seeing, this guardian that’s been assigned to watch over him within the village proper. It takes longer for him to realize how he’s crawled from the edge of the rooftop garden towards the bed of dead flowers, how he’s staring at them in his hands, lifeless, dried, crumpling like paper when he balls his hands into fist and the only thing going through his mind as everything else blurs around him is no, no, gods no, _nononononono_ \--

“I told you stay away from them!” Iruka _snaps_ , turning his gaze upward to the shadow. “I told you to not go near them! _What have you done_!”

Iruka’s hand darts outwards, grasping the ANBU’s wrist and turning him around forcefully as he gets to his feet.

Only to come face to face with a glimpse of Cat’s mask, not at all missing the familiar green markings around the temples and jaw, the red painted feline mouth and the red crescents around the sides of each eyehole.

Iruka knows that mask like it’s a part of his own skin.

He knows it because he’s placed it on Tenzou’s face each time he had to say goodbye, had scrubbed out the toughest of stains from it when Tenzou comes home bathed in crimson. He knows it like its his own because it belonged to the man that was once his other half. 

The man who made him whole. 

Iruka jerks back like he’s been burned, something growing in his throat as a thousand accusations slams into him. Iruka knows for a fact that ANBU identities aren’t repeated. Because those masks are more than just a mask for some of them; for men like Tenzou, it’s their identity, the only thing that can be remotely theirs, the only symbol of respect, of humanity if one can even call it that, to tools that remain unknown, unseen by the people they protect and serve. Tenzou told him that, one night, as both of them worked on polishing his armor and mask. 

“Who -- Who gave you that mask?” Iruka asks, the syllables stammered out, everything in him shaking apart, crumpling to the finest shards of glass. “Did he give it to you? Are you the new Cat now?”

The shadow doesn’t respond, simply remains standing there, hands on its side, its head ducked. Iruka doesn’t even see it breathe.

“That isn’t yours to own!” Iruka _snarls_. “You have no right to take what doesn’t belong to you! That’s not yours! Give it back!” Iruka steps forward, chakra spiking in rage, coiling like hot solar flares, his vision focused on the target before him. When Cat makes no movement to surrender the mask that had no right to be worn by anyone else, Iruka loses it. “ _I said give it back!_ ”

Iruka charges forward, his hand slapping over the surface of the cool porcelain. Wraps around the edge of the jawline, preparing to _claw_ his husband’s mask off that fucking face.

Except his fingers meets air.

Cat is gone.

Like he was never there to begin with, the grass under the ANBU standard issued boots undisturbed.

Iruka spins wildly on his feet, looks everywhere, finds no trace of any presence before he decides that this has gone far enough.

*

“Is he inside?” Iruka _barks_ at the stammering, new Chuunin assistant who is on his feet immediately, flushing and looking about 

“Y-Yes, Iruka-san, but he didn’t mention that you were coming by --”

Iruka doesn’t wait for the sentence to finish, his hand pushing the door open to Kakashi’s deadpan expression, gloved hand pausing mid-signature over a document on his desk. The expression eases to something else in a space of a heartbeat as Iruka manages to take two steps into the office before two ANBU guards flank him, a gloved, clawed grip wrapping around both of Iruka’s shoulders in warning to not take one step further.

Iruka doesn’t move, remains standing there as the anger swallows him whole, his vision going red, as his coursing blood roars in his ears. He looks at Kakashi right in the eyes, his breathing careful, measured.

“I need to speak to you,” Iruka announces, his voice thick, the syllables coming out all wrong, all twisted, so unlike him, raw and rabid. 

“Leave us,” Kakashi orders, standing up from behind his desk.

The ANBU guards vanish, the scuttling assistant stumbling over apology after apology as he grabs the door and closes it firmly, giving the Hokage the privacy he ordered for.

“Iruka --”

“You have some fucking _nerve!_ ” Iruka _lashes_ , making Kakashi pause in his motion to walk around the table. “In all my years serving the Sandaime, the Godaime and now a few with you, I have never questioned the Hokage’s orders. I turned a blind eye to the escort you saddled me with, who would walk around in my house -- _in my fucking house_ \-- watching me, keeping an eye on me, on _your orders_ because gods, I can’t even begin to comprehend why you would think I’d need one! It’s not like I haven’t been posing a danger to the students, or doing the village a disservice by not taking my post seriously! I had asked that ANBU guard one thing! One damn thing and that is to stay away from the only -- the only thing left alive in the garden that hasn’t -- that hasn’t died yet!” 

Kakashi stands rigid behind his desk, looking a little alarmed, as he pushes himself away from it and walks around it, coming to stand in front of Iruka, gloved hands curling around Iruka’s shoulders that Iruka jerks away from.

“Iruka, listen --”

But Iruka doesn’t.

“Now I know I’m not the Hokage, but what part of that request was so hard to honor?” Iruka balls his hands to fists. “I can look past that! They were going to die eventually, I can accept that! But what I cannot -- _I will not_ accept is you giving Cat to someone else! He hasn’t even been dead a full year! He respected you! You were his senpai, his closest friend! That mask meant more to him than just a code name, it was all he had! And you gave it to someone else! _How could you_?”

Kakashi grabs him by the shoulder again, his grip firm, eyebrows narrowed, jaw locked as a storm brews in the depths of his eyes, lines appearing around the corners of it, between the tightly knitted eyebrows, as his throat bobs once, just as the response tumbles past his lips that makes everything in Iruka drop to the core of the earth.

“I did not assign you an ANBU escort.” Kakashi says slowly, softly. “I did not re-assign Cat's codename to anyone--”

“W-What--” Iruka’s voice comes out strangled, distant.

“ _I did not_ ,” Kakashi repeats, both hands coming up to to press on the feverish burn of Iruka’s neck, forcing Iruka to look up and focus, as Kakashi holds his gaze with an expression that is a little too open, raw, strange. “I would _never_ do that. Not to him. Not to you.”

It dawns on Iruka on the possibility on what all this can mean.

At how seeing things that aren’t even real is grounds enough for him to be on enforced leave, and if the Hokage deems it worthy, to be evaluated by a panel, his performance subject for review. An academy instructor who cannot tell reality from imagination is deemed a red flag, unfit to be around children. Iruka certainly wouldn’t want to have his own children being taught by someone who thinks ghosts are real, who sees vivid images of their loved ones walk around in broad daylight, who thinks they’re so real that their physical shape can be felt. Iruka had felt it, the cool mask, the wrist, the rough texture of that travel cloak, when everything else had been cold, nothing more than a shadow. There but not.

But I felt him, Iruka wants to explain, like it would mean anything at this point. When it doesn’t. Not anymore. Iruka stares at his hands, stepping away from Kakashi who only moves a step forward, his grip remaining firm on Iruka’s shoulders. 

“F-Forgive me, Hokage-sama, I am so sorry. This is insubordination. To question you when it’s my mistake, my fault, my _weakness_ \--” 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Kakashi says firmly, a tremble going through his fingers that aren’t at all steady in its grip. “Stop apologizing. I am taking you home. Right now.”

Iruka swallows, blinking the moisture out of his eyes and keeping his back straight, as shame and grief flushes his face a dark red. Kakashi is looking at him with a look Iruka doesn’t know what to do with, guilt, shame, helplessness all roiling into a stormy expression that leaves Kakashi looking vulnerable, defeated. 

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing…” Kakashi murmurs.

Iruka steps away from him then, everything around him distorting into distant shapes, distant voices, one foot back after another as time bends inwards before exploding outwards, throwing Iruka’s entire reality into hyperspace, leaving him suspended in some form of limbo.

*

Iruka is not sure what happens.

One minute, he’s in the Hokage’s office.

The next he’s at home, clean, his hair damp and hanging down his shoulders, soaking the fabric of Tenzou’s favourite house t-shirt, staring down at a formally written request for a leave of absence, drafted and signed.

Iruka isn’t even sure what he had said to Kakashi. If he had insulted him further, acted more untowards a man of his station, or if he had demonstrated further insubordination. 

What Iruka does know is this:

None of his exerted effort for the past year and half matters. The garden doesn’t matter, the flowerbeds doesn’t matter. The reassigning of Cat to someone else doesn’t matter either.

Because in the grand scheme of things, even if Iruka does maintain the garden, if Cat is never given to anyone ever again, if the flowers never bloom, if the grass finally dries out, it still wouldn’t bring Tenzou back. All that effort wouldn’t make the ice surrounding their home melt, nor would it ever bring with it the warmth Tenzou’s presence would bring every time he came home alive, breathing, and safe. Iruka can spend the rest of his life following an imperfect system, being a good soldier and it still wouldn’t fill the yawning, desolate emptiness in his chest. 

Serve, Tenzou had said. Take it one day at a time, he had said. Try to find some semblance of happiness.

Iruka looks up at one of the framed photographs on their living room shelf, his favorite one, taken just days after they had moved back to their apartment, after almost a year of waiting and separation after the war. They had thought each other dead, separated like alot of Konoha's citizens who had been displaced in various campsites all over Fire when Konoha was reduced to nothing but ash and rubble. The selfie-shot was taken the day Tenzou had finished restoring the final touches to the gazebo in their garden. They are both sitting on their suspended bench, the view of the half restored village behind them, with Iruka laughing into Tenzou’s cheek, who in return had one side of his face hidden away from the camera lens, while the other half exposed a goofy expression. Iruka can’t even remember what they were talking about when the candid shot captured that particular moment, but it was the first photo they took together after the war.

It was their new start, their new world.

Now it sits there, reminding Iruka of a world long gone, something that can never be returned or restored. 

Iruka cannot bare to look at it all of a sudden, to stare at the past that had been picturesque in it’s perfection, to think that he can ever manage to find a fraction of that kind of happiness again, that he can even _try_ — 

Iruka is across the room in a blink of an eye, his fingers wrapping around that awful, mocking, offensive framed photograph before he throws it with all the force his body is capable of across the living room.

It shatters through one of the floor to ceiling high windows, exploding a glimmer of a million fallen stars outwards.

Iruka grabs the next photograph, the one he and Tenzou had taken two years ago, in front of the movie theatre premiering one of Tenzou’s favorite daytime soaps as a special summer movie release, a celebration of being on the air for ten years. They’re both grinning at the camera, peace signs thrown up, an arm around each other. It shatters against the other end of the wall, marking the paint job on their living room.

Iruka grabs the next photo — their first new year after surviving the war, both of them in yukatas, Iruka in dark, rich burgundy, Tenzou in his devilishly handsome navy blue. He had lost count how many times he had caught Tenzou watching him, how many times Tenzou had whispered how beautiful he was that night. It goes through another window.

Every memory captured gets thrown out and away. 

Iruka tears apart the remains of his world that had no business looking whole anymore because it hasn’t been. Not for the past year and a half. Books, trinkets, cushions, the drying cups on the dish rack, the kitchen drawers drawers and cupboards, paintings that hung on the wall, Tenzou’s slowly regrowing collection of drama series -- they splinter into pieces, lying in a once upon a time dream world, now nothing but a war zone of memories, a future that is never going to happen.

And when Iruka looks around him, when he sees himself reflected in the wrecked remains of a home that can never be a home, he falls to his knees and _screams._  
  


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's coming along. I suppose.
> 
> Next chapter I'm attempting to write Kakashi. Heavens help me, please. I can't even. It's a challenge for sure!


	5. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

It is how Kakashi finds him, in a spread of destruction and broken glass, hunched over, curled into himself on the ground and weeping like a wounded animal. Kakashi stares at the shell of a man _howl_ his grief, the sounds tearing past his throat at a loss so big, that it takes everything in Kakashi to not sink to his knees too, to not give in to the guilt that’s been slowly chipping away at the softest parts of him since Tenzou’s team had returned with the news of his fall.

To see the depth of Iruka’s grief, how he’s kept himself meticulously busy, had thrown himself into his line of duty like a dedicated, blind servant, how he had remained strong, steady, despite the crippling loss, his resilience through the grief that must have been struggling to come out this entire time is admirable. 

Even in this age of peace, Kakashi is still managing to bury the living under the earth, turning the most beautiful things into something grotesque, breaking them to the point of no return. That without even lifting a finger, he has torn love from someone’s arms, only to have it fall into a crevice full of rocks, buried and forgotten somewhere no one can hope to find. 

After all, how can he ever comprehend the true value of love, when he has abandoned his closest friend and killed the first girl that ever loved him? When he did nothing when the entire village shunned his father, reducing the man to a mute drowning in shame? When he couldn’t keep his team together, couldn’t teach them the value of what it means to be a unit? When he’s spent years of his life staying away from a thing called love only because everything he loves and holds dear always ends up being nothing more than a memory. When love is never supposed to hurt, is supposed to heal the most broken of men, to be a haven from misery and make living worthwhile. When it’s easier to pretend that losing yourself to someone’s touch for a moment -- just one, fleeting moment -- is the closest thing you can get to love, to something real, however short it may be.

What he and Tenzou had in the past is not love. Nowhere near it.

Kakashi has long ago accepted that he is a man that doesn’t deserve love. That a man like him who can’t even keep the smallest of promises does not deserve to be the center of someone’s universe. That it had been inevitable, despite Tenzou’s disconnect from the world around him, his comfort and eerily disorienting ability to sleep through the bloodshed undisturbed, unperturbed, the perfect soldier in the only way that counts when you’re nothing more than a mask and a weapon, that Tenzou would one day look for something more real, whole, beautiful.

It had only taken one moment of seeing them together, before the Great War, before Pain for Kakashi to understand the depth of Tenzou’s commitment, the love that made his eyes as bright as the galaxy, alight with a trillion stars, how it had softened the hard lines of his usually neutral, if not sometimes placid expression. Kakashi doesn’t remember ever seeing Tenzou look so unlike himself, so different from the man Kakashi has known for years, so incredibly handsome.

(Happiness does that, makes a person look otherworldly, breathtaking, even.)

In that brief moment, in the middle of Tea Avenue, with Kakashi standing meters away, he had watched his kouhai’s lips tug upwards to an unabashed smile, soft in its pull upon lips that are almost always pressed to an unbiased line, as he responds to something that Iruka is saying. 

Iruka who had been looking at Tenzou like he’s the sun to his sky, whose smile is blindingly bright, dimples visible for anyone to look at but not quite have.

Kakashi remembers thinking how good they looked together. He remembers thinking how good of a man Iruka must be to soften the hardest parts of Tenzou, to make him look like that, to have him be like that, for all the world to see— open, loud. He remembers being happy for Tenzou, proud that he’s found something for himself when he’s remained mostly quiet and shuttered from the living, always in the shadows, too comfortable in the dark, too complacent with the blood.

A man like Tenzou deserves something good. 

After all, Iruka is a good man. He is kind, fiercely loyal, compassionate, patient. He is the kind of man that shaped heroes, that made the most broken of them all believe in something greater. He is the kind of man who instilled bravery into little hands, taught them to be courageous when no one else would. It would have been so easy for Naruto to fall out of line, too broken down by the cruelty of the world that was still bitter as the beast that he houses in his body. It would have been easy for Naruto to stray, to not learn to persevere, to surrender to the thirst of the nine-tails all those years ago. 

He’s all the good that’s worth fighting for, Tenzou had said. He’s the best of us. You’d understand if you get to know him, Tenzou had said. 

Kakashi didn’t understand it at first, not until he had spent time with Iruka as his assistant for the first few months after the administration building and Hokage tower had been restored, months before the Academy had reopened. Iruka’s dedication, his boldness, his straight forward delivery of words, how he would uncaringly pluck Kakashi’s book from his hand as if he were confiscating something from one of his students, how he didn’t care for Kakashi’s station, was not at all intimidated by his rank, or his reputation. Iruka had approached his work as the Hokage’s assistant with a tenacity that had been admirable. Kakashi had trusted his judgment when it came to the bureaucracy and political legalese and in turn, Iruka had understood the kind of office, the kind of leadership Kakashi had wanted to shape to be his legacy. 

Hokage-sama became Kakashi-sama, which then later changed to Kakashi-san. It is only in the presence of the council that Iruka would even revert to Kakashi’s formal title, switching it just as quickly to Kakashi-san the moment the council is out of earshot.

Kakashi isn’t sure why Iruka did what he did. He didn’t claim to understand how Iruka worked, but it had been something he appreciated. Especially when his fellow shinobi seem to fawn, to wager to please him, too eager to kiss ass.

(There had been an afternoon, almost a lifetime ago, one of the rarest moments where Kakashi’s office had not been overflowing with stacks and stacks of paperwork, when they had managed to be on top of everything, that Iruka had left the office only to return with two cups of tea. They stood there for just a short while, a pause in their usually busy day, watching the sun disappear behind the Hokage monument. Iruka had looked at the stretch of the village with something soft tugging at his features. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Iruka had said, bathed in the glow of the spring sun, gold reflecting over the stands of his hair, in the depths of his eyes. Kakashi had turned his gaze away from Iruka at that, looking towards the village and making an agreeable hum.)

Iruka is exceptionally attractive, funny, incredibly fun to rile up. 

Kakashi can understand why Tenzou is so taken by him, why Tenzou thinks the world of him. 

Who wouldn’t?

Kakashi thinks, as he kneels in front of Iruka, as he gently eases him up from the spread of broken glass, as he stares at the small cuts all over his hand and forearms, at the blotches of red on his face, swollen eyelids, the tremble of his lips as he struggles to breathe through the grief Kakashi had watched Iruka tried so hard to suffocate, to bury, to kill, that even broken, Iruka still remains beautiful.

Iruka shakes his head, tries to wipe off his tears from his face, tries to gather himself, to be presentable, to be proper, his mouth trying to form the syllables of Kakashi’s name, trying to excuse himself, to hide this part of him he doesn’t want anyone to ever see. 

Kakashi’s hands aren’t the steadiest when he pulls Iruka’s hands away from his face, when he carefully wraps his arms around the quake of Iruka’s shoulders, when he tries to bury the _wail_ that tears past Iruka’s lips anew, muffled by the fabric of Kakashi’s vest as he holds him as tight as he can, tries to keep him together when he’s not even sure he can, when there’s probably no way Iruka can ever be whole again. Not with the love of his life gone, buried somewhere unknown to any of them.

He did this.

This is his fault.

Kakashi’s hands are always ruining things that are beautiful.

He should have known that it was only a matter of time before he destroyed the love between Tenzou and Iruka. 

He should have known that it was inevitable.

It’s what he’s been put on this earth for.

*  
  
The worst of the storm passes, leaving nothing but a dark, quiet, cold hush and elongated shadows on bare walls, illuminated by the reflecting shards on the ground and the thrum of the village beyond. 

Kakashi sits there, with his back against the upended sofa, staring at the ceiling as the film of salt in his eyes finally dries. In his arms, Iruka is unmoving, tucked under his chin, gaze vacant as the tears continues to spill out of his eyes, breath slow and steady, the screams muted. Kakashi doesn’t know how long they sit like that for, with both arms around Iruka, his fingers curled around a lock of hair, absentmindedly caressing that small piece of silk between his fingers. He can smell the barest hints of Tenzou like this, cedar and musky amber, can almost pretend that Tenzou isn’t dead under rocks and water somewhere, all of it under the stronger, more prominent scent of orange and cinnamon.

He isn’t quite sure who moves first.

It is in the eye of the storm that they begin to pick up the pieces. They mirror each other, moving around the apartment - because home is a person, not a place - moving the furniture back up to its proper places, gathering fallen photographs, salvaging anything that still remains whole, if not partially cracked. 

In the end the apartment ends up looking a little bare, the broken window taped up with sheets of plastic, and two old boxes filled with broken shards of whatever it is Tenzou had taken with him when he fell. 

Kakashi hands Iruka the photographs he had picked up from the floor and the garden. They’re a little crumpled, some folded around the edges, but otherwise whole. Iruka stares at them for the longest while, mute as the tears continues to carve down his face. Kakashi watches with an ache so palpable that he forgets to breathe at how Iruka brings the back of his arm to swipe over his eyes viciously, forcefully wiping the tears that won’t stop falling off his face, shoves the small stack of photographs into the box filled with broken things and forcefully closes the flaps. 

Kakashi watches him carry those two boxes outside the apartment, down the stairwell, something twistingtwistingtwisting in his chest as Iruka drops them in the corner by the dumpster and walks away from it. Kakashi watches him from over the ledge, watches how the steps slows down and Iruka almost crumples all over again, how Iruka brings a hand to his mouth, watches him bite through the pain that had nowhere else to go but inwards, before he soldiers onwards, forcing his chin up, viciously, angrily wiping the tears off his face.

Iruka steps into the apartment, shuts the door and puts on the kettle for tea, his back turned to Kakashi.

Kakashi knows the regret that will come later.

So when Iruka isn’t looking, he retrieves the small stack of photographs, tucking it into the safe confines of his utility pack. 

When Iruka is ready, Kakashi will return them to him. 

*

“I am not fit to teach at the Academy,” Iruka states, his voice faded, in the same tone he would present an important case to Kakashi that warrants his immediate attention all those years ago when he had been his assistant. It’s concise, polite, to the point. “I would like to present myself forward for psychological evaluation and will accept enforced leave if it is necessary.”  
  
They are seated adjacent to each other in the dining room, dawn slowly creeping up into the backdrop.

“Do you want to be on enforced leave?” Kakashi asks, hesitant. 

Iruka’s eyebrows knit, before he brings his hands up and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Not really. But after -- I am not confident in being around the children. I am not confident at this time that I can serve my post with due diligence.”

Serve. 

Iruka calls it a service. His passion, his love for teaching, his love for these children now reduced to something more base, cold, a textbook definition. Like he’s nothing more than a tool, a means to distribute information to the younger generation. Nothing else. 

“There are other ways for you to be occupied if that is what you want. It doesn’t necessarily have to be within the Academy. I can have you moved temporarily into the administration building, or offer you your old post as the Hokage’s assistant, if you wish,” Kakashi pauses, watching no expression flicker over Iruka’s face. Kakashi thinks this isn’t the time to have this conversation, that Iruka probably needs time to process all this, given what he’s been through,how he’s been suffocating his grief. “Iruka --”

“As the Hokage’s assistant then,” Iruka answers, staring at his tea.

Of course Iruka would pick the Hokage’s office, where the work never stops and there’s not a moment where he has to pause, where he is left with no task at hand, no shinobi coming and going. It’s impossible to be on top of everything when you’re the Hokage’s assistant. It’s a job that requires one to constantly manage priorities. Of course Iruka would want to be busy around the clock.

Why would he ever want to come back home to nothing?

“I would caution you to not be hasty with your decision on this. Please think about this carefully,” Kakashi cautions, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. 

“There’s nothing to think about,” Iruka curtly dismisses. “Tenzou says that I should serve, take it one day at a time when he dies. I can’t think of a better way to serve Konoha, a higher honor than to serve its current Hokage.”

A chill goes down Kakashi’s spine at the delivery of that statement, at the deadened look in Iruka’s eyes as he continues to stare at him with a neutral expression, dimples not visible, a mere shadow of his former self.

Kakashi thinks he should say no.

Thinks he should deny this.

But he watches Iruka swallow, his gaze sliding away from Kakashi as he brings an arm up to rub at his other elbow, how he shudders at an invisible cold when the apartment is warm, a little clammy even, goosebumps breaking over the length of his arm.

Kakashi realizes then, that there’s probably nothing Iruka would ask of him that he wouldn’t say no to. 

Not after Kakashi has taken everything away from him.

*

When Iruka shows up on Monday, he is greeted with excited welcomes by the Hokage administration team and even wider smiles. Kakashi doesn’t usually come in early on Mondays; today is an exception. He watches Iruka greet and converse pleasantly with the rest of the staff, watches him go through the handover process for the first few hours with a familiar focus. Kakashi isn’t a foreigner to Iruka’s narrowed eyebrows while he reads through a document, all while he drums his pencil against his lap and if he’s particularly stressed, it’d be on the table. Iruka is drumming his pencil on the table right now, no doubt overwhelmed by the onslaught of work that’s overflowing past the brim.

Kakashi doesn’t remember seeing his staff this happy. Or relieved.

He knows that Iruka is a reliable individual, has no doubts that he’ll find his groove in the mess he seems to be saddled with in no time.

What Kakashi worries about is that Iruka won’t do anything else other than work at the office. That he won’t carve time for himself, take care of himself, that he’d waste away within the four walls of their office, drowning in servitude. 

And if that does happen, Kakashi isn’t sure he’d have the right to stop him, or intervene.

You don’t take someone’s last purpose away when they’re trying to survive. 

He might as well shove a fistful of lightning right in the middle of Iruka’s chest if he dares takes that away from Iruka too. Raikiri would certainly be a lot more merciful.  
  
*

It takes two weeks for Iruka to settle completely into his role.

It takes another week for Iruka to come up with a more effective system in managing the sheer amount of paperwork that has Kakashi wondering if it is Konoha’s greatest goal to set some sort of world record in paper usage. By the time the fourth week of September rolls in, Kakashi’s office is a little breezier. When he looks up from his desk, Iruka’s form is no longer obscured by towering dosiers that Kakashi usually has to figure out why it’s even on his desk. Now, everything is clearly labeled, Kakashi’s time freed to focus on more tactical and political matters as opposed to the routine paperwork.

Through it all, Iruka functions like clockwork. He comes in at seven in the morning and stays till ten in the evening. He takes a thirty minute lunch break at one, and then another thirty minutes at five for a cup of tea at the rooftop. There are rare days where Iruka spend the night in the office; Kakashi hasn’t caught him yet and only finds out that Iruka has spent the night working when he sees Iruka’s desk devoid of the mountain of folders that had occupied it the night before. Someone would then pop by to relay a message, saying that Iruka will be back in an hour or so, he had just gone home a while ago to change after working through the night.

Kakashi waits for that pattern to become a habit. 

It doesn’t.

*

On the thirtieth of September, a little before lunch time, Iruka strolls into the office after stepping out for a few minutes with a bento wrapped in a furoshiki. He places the bento on Kakashi’s desk, right in the middle, on a clear empty spot.

“Happy birthday, Kakashi-san,” Iruka says, polite as ever, pleasantly neutral in his expression, his lips pressing to a thin line as if he’s stifling amusement.

Kakashi had not expected it, certainly not for Iruka to remember, let alone bother. He stares at the generous looking portion of lunch before him, then back up at Iruka. “My birthday was weeks ago,” Kakashi drolls.

“Matches your tardiness,” Iruka says, and after a beat, he adds, “the late birthday wishes, I mean.”

That’s another thing about Iruka. He hasn’t changed in his delivery of swift replies, hasn’t amended his ways from what Kakashi remembers of him during his time serving the Hokage’s years ago after the war. It’s like Iruka has never left at all. 

“You didn’t have to,” Kakashi says, sighing as he undos the knot on the furoshiki, popping the lid of the container to stare at the wonderful arrangement within. Iruka had taken the time to shape up the vegetables, to arrange the rice and egg rolls to something that resembles out of a picture in a magazine. It had everything Kakashi likes — nasu dengaku, grilled saury, a portion of seared salmon, vegetables and tofu accompanied by a generous portion of rice. Iruka knows what he likes because this isn’t the first time Iruka has given him lunch. Kakashi has managed to bribe Tenzou for a home cooked meal a few times over the years; the knowledge comes from Tenzou. 

Every year, on his birthday, without fail, on the fifteenth of September, Tenzou would drop off a generous portion of his favourite meal, something Kakashi would store in the fridge and eat for three days.

From us to you, Tenzou would say, a ghost of a smile on his relaxed face.

Something tightens in Kakashi’s chest at the sight before him, his appetite disappearing despite the appetising spread before him. 

Iruka is looking at him with an expression that is a little pinched around the sides. Kakashi watches Iruka’s expression flicker to the corner, as he sucks in a deep breath and says, “It’s not as big as last year’s—“

“Thank you,” Kakashi cuts Iruka off. “It’s great. I appreciate this. And this is a lot. Would you like join me?”

“I have to step out for a while for a quick errand,” Iruka answers, his lips tugging up to a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His dimples doesn’t show. People who don’t know him would think it’s genuine; Kakashi knows better. He’s seen better. He’s got a small stack of evidence of its existence tucked into his utility pouch. “But I’ll be back in thirty.”

Kakashi doesn’t argue, nodding his acknowledgment instead. He watches Iruka dip his head politely and take his leave, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, the weight on his chest heavier than it has ever been.

*

As days turn to weeks, Iruka remains dedicated and structured shinobi. 

The perfect soldier. The perfect assistant. 

Kakashi hasn’t visited the Umino apartment since Iruka became the Hokage’s assistant. Their ritual of sharing a cup of tea together moved from the confines of a once upon a time perfect home to the window sill of the Hokage’s office. That too, is like clockwork. 

At seven in the evening, Iruka would stand from his desk and bring about the exact same tea he would serve at the apartment. Unless Kakashi isn’t around and is attending to either business with the council, ANBU, torture and interrogation or the Hunters, the cup of tea would be set down before him and that would be Kakashi’s queue time stand up and face the the village through the stretch of glass behind his chair. 

On a Thursday, the nineteenth of December, Iruka brings no tea. Instead, he stands before Kakashi seeking permission to be dismissed early for the evening and asking if he can take the next day off.

“Of course,” Kakashi grants it immediately. He has no reason not to.

“Thank you for your consideration,” Iruka politely responds, the only thing betraying his surprise is the two blinks at Kakashi’s swift agreement. “I may come in on Saturday.”

“If you need extra days off, you can take it. I’m not running a tight ship here; you know I’m open to flexibility,” Kakashi reminds Iruka.

“I am aware and I haven’t forgotten,” Iruka responds with a smile that does his face no positive favours. It’s almost a little mocking, how that hideous shadow of Iruka’s once upon a time bright smile sits on his face. “You will also remember that I am not the kind of person to take advantage of my Hokage’s kindness and generosity. What would people think if I did?”

“Ah, yes,” Kakashi sighs, “I had forgotten about the people.”

“As your assistant, I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t remind you how important it is to put the people first,” Iruka says, a little flatly. 

Kakashi looks at him for a while and sure enough, Iruka rolls his eyes openly. For a brief moment, the dimple on Iruka’s right cheek almost fully hollows with the almost smirk that tugs around the edges of Iruka’s lips. 

Almost.

“Is that so?” Kakashi deadpans.

“Very much so,” Iruka quips and ducks his head briefly, his jawline tightening before he lifts his head again, amusement glimmering like first sign of light after a storm.

“Then the people thanks you, for ensuring that their Hokage remains not quite the worst Hokage in history. Acceptable, if you will,” Kakashi responds, his expression and tone remaining inscrutable. 

Iruka stifles a sound of sound of something that is somewhere between a huff of amusement and partial laughter behind a fist, trying to mask it as a gesture of clearing his throat. For a moment, the motion of that not-quite-a-laugh almost reaches his eyes, softens it, both dimples winking at the world, before Iruka ducks and lowers his hand back to his side.

It’s the best expression Kakashi has seen on his face in what would be almost two years.

“You’re not the worst Hokage, Kakashi-san,” Iruka says, his nose wrinkling for a moment as he turns his gaze towards a pile of papers that Kakashi knows has been sitting there since the previous day. “But you may be the worst in my book if I return and still find those untouched.”

“Yare, yare…” Kakashi leans back in his chair, craning his neck up at the ceiling. 

The conversation isn’t serious. It never is. It’s one of the reasons he enjoys having Iruka around -- this back and forth between them that is masked in polite, political correctness is always a thing of amusement. How Iruka tolerates very little of Kakashi’s play at nonsense. 

“See you in two days, Kakashi-san,” Iruka suss, dipping his head in a bit of a bow. “Please don’t be tardy.”

Kakashi makes a non-commital sound, watching Iruka turn with a shake of his head, the gesture directed more to himself rather than Kakashi as he takes his leave quietly.

Everything about Iruka is quiet, like the weight of the loss that continues to loom over him. A loss that’s never going to get any lighter. A loss that Iruka has every right to blame on Kakashi and yet doesn’t. 

Kakashi thinks Iruka is too kind towards someone like him. Too forgiving. Too understanding. Too accepting. Tolerant. Patient. All the good worth fighting for, Tenzou had said.

Tenzou was right. 

Now that Kakashi has been actively paying close attention, watching out for signs of grief that may raise a red flag or take shape into something ugly, something bloody, or irrational, he sees it as clear as day — the reason Tenzou had fallen so in love with someone like Iruka that he morphs to a completely different man. That even in the rot of everything they do, Tenzou seems to come alive, as bright as the sun when he orbit around Iruka’s own star.

He understands a little better now, why Naruto is the man he is.

Standing up from his seat to face the window, he watches as Iruka steps out of the building and into the busy street, his gaze looking left and right before he crosses towards one of the smaller roads that would lead towards Tea Avenue, ponytail bobbing as he jogs until he disappears around the corner. 

Kakashi understands.

It doesn’t make the guilt that sits like a yawning void in his chest any easier to tolerate.

If anything, it hurts to be reminded of what had once been something beautiful, now reduced to nothing more than a raised reflection of its former luster.

*

The next evening, a little before Kakashi retires to a house that is far too big for him, a house that suits a man of his title, he ‘strolls’ through Konoha’s rooftops, his own version of patrolling. 

It’s his usual route before he stops by at Umino household for tea.

This time though, Kakashi stops by at the apartment only to find it empty, the garden completely gone. What had once been a flourishing greenery is now nothing but wood and concrete, the gazebo covered by canvas covering secured with ropes to bolted down hooks on the concrete ground that once held rich soil. 

He stands there, staring past the slight parting of the curtains beyond the glass, seeing shadows of the couches covered in white sheets. The presence of their plump house cat is nowhere. 

Iruka is nowhere to be found.

Kakashi sighs softly, sadness making the back of his throat taste a little bitter as he continues on his way, leaving behind a packed up, locked down house that has now fully become a crypt to happier memories.

It isn’t right. Packing all that up.

Kakashi thinks it’s a bit of a disservice to Tenzou’s memory, purging all that, leaving it behind, parts of Tenzou covered in white, hidden, out of sight, out of mind. 

If all your loved ones are dead, why would you want to bury their memories when that’s all you have left? 

Kakashi lies in bed that night staring at a photograph of Iruka and Tenzou. Tenzou looks comical, his face twisted into a funny expression, half of it hidden while Iruka smiles, as wide as the sky, happy, beautiful. 

He shouldn’t have sent Tenzou in that mission. He shouldn’t have assigned that S-rank race for securing documents for the Daimyo that even he, the Hokage, isn’t privy to its contents. For all Kakashi knows, the contents of the fucking scroll could be worthless. It certainly wouldn’t warrant the death of one of Konoha’s best active ANBU field agents. It wouldn’t warrant the death of a friend. 

Kakashi didn’t have a lot of those anymore.

He stares at Tenzou’s face — gods, Tenzou was so happy. Kakashi can’t remember a time where Tenzou even made a stupid expression like _that_ at him when Tenzou isn’t piss-drunk. An expression like that is something Tenzou wouldn’t direct at Kakashi so willingly; that isn’t the kind of relationship they had with each other, even when they were fucking. It’s the kind of expression where Tenzou didn’t care if he’s caught looking human, if he’s judged for being anything else other than a weapon. It’s an expression that’s bold, _loud._

Everything that Tenzou is not.

Except when he’s with Iruka.

Kakashi flips through the rest of the photos until he comes back to the first one, his eyes burning the longer he stares at Tenzou’s face.

“What a shitty senpai I am, huh, Tenzou?” Kakashi murmurs to the ceiling, pressing the photographs to his chest as he closes his eyes to ease the salty burn away.

*

Kakashi doesn’t sleep well these days.

Not when he keeps thinking of the day he handed Tenzou the mission that eventually had been his death sentence. 

In the end, Kakashi spends the rest of his evening at the training grounds, exhausting his energy until the sun rises, until he’s tired enough that he can walk into the office morning after morning, with enough space in his chest to refill with guilt at the sight of Iruka serving a village when everything that made him so alive is buried somewhere in the Southern Sea.

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write Kakashi-emotional-trash. Tried. This took forever. I've never done this much Kakashi writing in... forever. I'm a little insecure about this chapter but, hey, phew, I got it out? Not as fast but I got it out! Also, I'm trying to establish time. By the end of this chapter, it's been 1 year and 11 months since Tenzou left for the mission. Iruka has been working as the assistant for about 3 months-ish. Anyhoos!
> 
> HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading this far! Especially if you're keeping up with works uploaded for this series and it's varying ending/twists! I appreciate you and your time for giving this rare pair and story a chance! Come say hi @ tumblr: pinkcatharsis.


	6. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

**WARNING: There's a scene towards the end that may read as non-con ( _it's not_ ). If that's something that triggers you, please be careful. You've been warned.**

On the twenty-ninth of November, Iruka concludes his move to a modest studio apartment, a block away from the administration building and Hokage tower. It is a little more spacious than his older apartment, with a bigger window, a two-door built in closet and more bathroom space, situated in a semi-busy street, that has a small izakaya two buildings down, a convenience store, and a quiet bar five buildings away towards a corner. It is a far cry from the luxury of the home he and Tenzou previously shared. 

Iruka doesn’t bother trying to make it look homey. It’s all white washed walls, grey linoleum floors and grey bathroom tiles. The only spot of color in the entire space is the dull, beige painted kitchen cabinets fitted on white tiles that Iruka plans to give a good scrubbing.

He procures a metal bed frame, coffee table and blue plaid three-seater sofa at a bargain price. He purchases a small space heater, two pairs of cutlery, a wok and an electric kettle. He had debated on buying a mini-fridge before deciding against it at the last minute. He figures that if he wanted some ice, the convenience store is open twenty-four hours. The previous tenant had left behind a compact double burner electric hotplate; Iruka didn’t see the point of procuring something to cook with when the hotplate remains functional. The only thing in the apartment that he had bothered to invest a little more in are his pillows and his mattress. 

He had packed his uniforms, weapons, a few of his clothes and toiletries. Everything Iruka needed to continue his role as the Hokage’s assistant and to be comfortable enough when he’s within the apartment -- what remains of himself, his life -- fits into one large duffel bag. 

Iruka doesn’t bring anything of Tenzou with him to his new living space -- none of the yukatas, robes, or clothes that Tenzou had brought him over the years after the war. None of the presents, the little trinkets, whatever photographs that remains tucked neatly into albums, Tenzou’s broken and whole ANBU mask -- Iruka leaves it all behind covered in white sheets, tucked securely into their proper places or packed away into boxes stacked in the corner of the living room. Iruka had disposed of anything perishable and donated whatever that had been in their pantry that remains safe to consume to the orphanage. 

When everything has been unpacked, the furniture arranged, groceries put away and his bed covered in newly bought sheets, Iruka turns the light off and ushers Mango into his carrier. He heads straight for the Hyuuga compound where Hinata is waiting for him. Hinata who greets him with a sad smile as he hands over Mango’s carrier and his small bag of toys, pretending the entire time that Mango pawing at the carrier aggressively, trying to get his attention doesn’t make him want to fall to his knees and weep like a lost child. 

(The truth is, he doesn’t want to give Mango away. The truth is, he doesn’t want to lose the only living thing he had left of his relationship with Tenzou. The truth is, Iruka is terrified that Mango too would leave him. Maybe run away, maybe fall ill because Iruka hasn’t been taking proper care of him as well as he should have, hasn’t showered him with affection, hasn’t played with him, taken him out the way he and Tenzou sometimes would. He’s done Mango a severe injustice that his once round belly isn’t as round anymore. Iruka looks at Mango with guilt that makes him cry for hours. Iruka looks at Mango and can only apologise repeatedly, even as Mango remains draped over his chest, his little round head tucked on Iruka’s shoulder.)

He remains tight lipped, says as little as possible during this entire transaction. He’s at least glad Mango is going to end up in Hinata’s care. She’s always been quite fond of the cat everytime she and Naruto showed up for the birthdays or gatherings he and Tenzou had hosted in their apartment. When Iruka had mentioned to Naruto that he’s moving to smaller apartment and can no longer keep the cat, it had taken all of Iruka’s strength to not get up and leave Ichiraku with the way Naruto had gone eerily quiet at the decision. Iruka almost did. But Naruto had turned to look at him with a smile and mentioned that before Iruka puts up posters for adoption that he be given the opportunity to ask Hinata if she’d want to take Mango. 

(Naruo said: She really likes that fat cat, you know? What Iruka hears is, you’re going to regret this so let’s keep it a little closer to home than to a complete stranger.)

“Iruka-sensei, if you ever want him back…” Hinata offers softly, kindly.

It makes Iruka blink several times but he clears his throat and shakes his head. “It’s better if I don’t, Hinata. Thank you for taking him…”

The look Hinata gives him makes him want to sink to the ground. Iruka knows it’s not pity. But the understanding in those milky irises is almost just as bad. Iruka bids her goodbye then, putting a stop to any potential conversation or any slip up that may happen on Iruka’s end.

He heads straight for the bar near his apartment that night, orders himself a bottle and downs drink after drink until the sounds of Mango’s pitiful, begging meows stops echoing in his ears.

It’s the first time Iruka drinks since Tenzou’s been marked officially dead.

  
*

That night, a little after midnight, Iruka stumbles through the short distance between the bar and his new apartment, as if he’s walking on a deck of a storm-tossed boat. He lurches, stumbles, the soles of his shoes scuffing against concrete and dirt. What should have been a short one minute walk takes forever, Iruka’s legs swaying left and right. It didn’t matter how many steps he takes forward, he is no closer to where he wants to be. 

He makes it home somehow.

And when he collapses on the sofa, face first and staring at the shadows of his apartment, he finds Cat kneeling on the linoleum floors, right next to the couch like some sort of guardian. Cat doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, opting to stare quietly at Iruka, its eye sockets as black as the cloak shrouding its figure. He’s been a constant presence, looming about in Iruka’s peripheral vision, always there, constantly reminding Iruka of what he’s lost. 

“I miss you,” Iruka murmurs, tears welling up in his eyes. “Gods, I miss you so much. I gave Mango away. I can’t move on if everything around me reminds me of you. Please forgive me,” Iruka sobs, shaking as he curls into himself, pushing his face into the armrest as the sobs wracks out of his frame.

Cat doesn’t respond; he never does.His presence, however, remains. 

It should bother Iruka how his grief has taken the shape of his husband’s identity on the field. It should make the hairs at the back of his neck and arms stand on edge, to have a ghost of someone dead keeping him company in his solitude in the dark.

It doesn’t.

It’s comforting, actually.

It makes Iruka never want to leave the house anymore. 

Iruka can lay down like this for good, staring at the form of his husband hidden under the layers of what made him a weapon and never need anything else. 

Eventually, he’s going to have to do something about making this shadow disappear completely. It’s not healthy to see things that aren’t real. Eventually, Iruka knows he’s going to have bid this shadow goodbye, to serve better, to be better, just like how Tenzou had wanted him to.

But not tonight.

Tonight, and tomorrow night, and the day after, and the day after that, for as long as it takes to get over this grief, Iruka will allow himself to be weak within the walls of his apartment and seek comfort from the silent ghost of his dead husband.

*

Iruka comes back to the world on the sofa, the harsh scent of all the hard liquor Iruka had consumed hours ago thick on his person, alone, Cat nowhere in sight. His throat is as dry as Wind’s desert, his mouth sticky with thick saliva, his head pounding with thunder within his personal stormy dark cloud that Iruka knows has no intention of clearing until at least noon. He had passed out on his stomach, an ache going through his neck from the awkward position it had been pillowed on the sofa’s arm rest -- so much so that each time Iruka moves his head in any direction, it sends a sharp, searing pain all the way down to his shoulders and back, leaving his fingers tingling and his teeth gritting with a hiss. 

It’s nothing short of a magnanimous effort that Iruka drags himself to the small shower stall, turns on the cold water and stands under the frigid, icy spray that leaves him shivering and maybe even ten steps closer to contracting pneumonia. Iruka argues with himself in the middle of tugging on his uniform that at least, despite the freezing temperature and the permanent cold that seems to have found itself a home under his skin, he does feel a little more refreshed after the shower. He only wishes he had the ability to give the inside of his skull the same treatment.

He shows up at his desk at seven looking a lot more put together than he had been an hour ago, nursing a full mug of instant coffee and pretending like he can make sense of everything around him. He almost pulls it off with the rest of the staff by keeping his gaze cast downwards, leaving the shadow and curl of his lashes to mask the lattice of pink over the whites of his eyes.

But the moment Kakashi walks in, two hours later, Iruka knows his act up. Kakashi pauses in front of his desk, his gaze heavy on Iruka’s body. 

It’s with a great deal and overwhelming shame that Iruka lifts his head up and stands, greeting Kakashi that way he normally would — feet together, head bowed, punctuated by a soft, polite, _good morning, Kakashi-san._

Kakashi doesn’t answer the greeting. 

He doesn’t even move.

Instead, Kakashi’s jawline tightens as Iruka holds his gaze, a quake going through Iruka’s frame as he stretches his mouth to a bit of a polite smile. “Something on my face?”

Kakashi makes a non-committal sound. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in today.”

“I did mention I was coming in,” Iruka responds in a gentle reminder. 

“Ah, I suppose you did.” Kakashi turns and moves towards his desk, setting his hat by the corner of the table and shrugging off the ropes to hang it over the chair’s backrest. “Must have slipped my mind.”

Iruka simply hums, sitting himself back down on his chair to take a careful sip of his coffee. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing pressing,” the dismissive response comes. “Nothing remotely exciting.”

“I see....” Iruka murmurs, the conversation dying off at that point.

*

Iruka gets very little done that day, losing time rereading document after document and not being able to process what exactly is required of him. He’s been staring at the balance sheet in front of him since lunchtime, appalled to admit out loud that he’s no closer to make sense of it than he did the first time he read it at one-thirty. Iruka is at least comforted by the fact that he’s got the office alone to himself; Kakashi had stepped out a little before lunch time to meet with the council.

It’s past six in the evening; Kakashi is yet to return.

By the time the clock on the wall reads seven thirty, Iruka decides that he’s done trying to pretend that he’s a civil, respectable person within the office walls and starts to clear his desk for the day. He re-arranges the documents on his table, Kakashi’s table, the small pile up of paperwork in the corner of the office that he needs to go through.

The clock reads eight-fifteen by the time Iruka steps out of the office into the breezy evening alight with the gentle sway of white paper lanterns decorating the streets emblazoned with Konoha’s symbol. It’s that time of year again where Konoha is getting ready for their annual grand fire festival. Last year, he and Tenzou had hosted a dinner party at their apartment, their garden arranged to accommodate their guests comfortably to watch the lanterns release. It had been nothing short of a spectacular sight, watching from the top of a seven-story building, how a thousand fire lit lanterns rose to the sky to meet the stars.

Iruka remembers calling it beautiful, his breath taken away as it always is when Konoha’s citizens lights up the sky with gold, leaning comfortably into Tenzou’s arms. Tenzou had hummed in agreement; Iruka only noticed he hadn’t been agreeing to Iruka’s statement because Tenzou had not been looking at the lanterns in the first place.

The memory of it makes bile rise to Iruka’s throat, as he stops in the middle of the brightly lit street, staring at the dirt on the ground, his heart jackhammering under his ribs.

The lights around him are suddenly too much, too hot, too bright, too blinding. The crowd is too loud, the cacophony of conversations grating into his ears like nails on a chalkboard. The smell wafting from the market stalls, the food carts, restaurants, cafes, bakery, they combine to one nauseous mess that makes Iruka’s stomach churn violently -- Iruka scrunches his eyes shut and brings a hand up to cover his mouth and nose, trying to choke down the noise that wants to rip past his throat, the bile that is threatening to trigger his gag reflex, the noise and busy chaos around him pounding in his head.

A hand on his shoulder makes Iruka jerk his head up, surprise replacing the pinched, and no doubt pallid expression on his face when he stares at Raidou and Genma, concern on their faces. Iruka can’t form words, the syllables stumbling upon themselves somewhere in his mouth as a tremble goes through him. 

“It’s been a while,” Raidou greets, retracting his hand from Iruka’s shoulder. 

“Look at you, all speechless. Aww, Iruka, I miss you too~” Genma grins, casually wrapping an arm around Iruka’s shoulder.

Iruka knows it’s a dismissal to the anxiety that Iruka had been choking with, open like goods on display on a market stall for anyone to see. Their words and actions are simply a way to hand Iruka back the control his fingers are struggling to wrestle back in order. Genma’s warmth and gesture of camaraderie makes it easier to inhale. Iruka shudders under the weight of Genma’s arm, a welcoming furnace to the cold tucked under Iruka’s uniform. 

Gods, Genma is incredibly warm. Was he always this warm? 

“We’re on our way to Haru’s,” Raidou says, tipping his chin to their favorite izakaya just two streets beyond Tea Avenue. “Kotetsu and Izumo are probably there.”

“When are they _not_ at Haru’s?” Iruka mumbles, Genma’s laugh rumbling and reverberating against Iruka’s body.

(For a moment, the press of something physically warm lulls Iruka into a false sense of security; if he closes his eyes now, he can imagine that it’s Tenzou.) 

“Come on, our treat,” Genma cajoles, stirring Iruka towards one of the side streets.

*

The weight of Genma’s arm doesn’t lift off Iruka’s shoulder, not until they step into Haru’s, where their usual table is -- not surprisingly -- occupied by Izumo and Kotetsu. They crow in delight, hands going up in a wave, their smiles broad when they see Iruka.Genma’s arm only lifts off his shoulders when he nudges Iruka towards the middle chair, Genma and Raidou flanking him on either of his side as Iruka reaches up to adjust his forehead protector. 

“Look who we found lost in the street,” Raidou says, picking up one of the beer bottles from the bucket on the table and passing it on to Iruka.

Iruka takes it gratefully, flushing a little at the looking lost comment.

It’s the only reference Raidou or Genma makes. 

Iruka sits there throughout dinner, genuinely entertained for a brief moment, as he listens to village gossip and stories being exchanged. The beer gets swapped for sake, as the stories being narrated earns either surprised gasps, snorts of amusement or scoffing dismissal. Iruka _almost_ forgets the grief, almost forgets that his husband is never coming home. He almost forgets the sounds of Mango’s pitiful, desperate meows, how he had clawed at his carrier door when Iruka had given him away. He almost forgets the state of his home, how ghost-like it is, probably thickened with dust now, the grain of the wood dulled after not seeing a good polish for weeks.

Almost.

“And you,” Kotetsu waves a finger in Iruka’s direction. “You are a messiah to the Hokage’s office. I have heard nothing but praise from anyone who even breathes your name. By the way, did you know that there’s talk that you are drugging the Hokage’s tea? That’s why Rokudaime-sama is listening to you and only you?”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Iruka scoffs, rolling his eyes as he empties his sake cup. “Honestly, how do people even reach these conclusions? He’d be dead if I was poisoning him. Or I’m pretty sure his ANBU detail would have me by the neck. I _know_ they’re taking their babysitting duty seriously.”

“Oh and are you aware of how the Academy is petitioning to get you back?” Izumo asks, before he tips his sake cup back in one go.

The words are news to Iruka. 

He stares at Izumo like he just confessed he’s about to commit treason. “I did not know that.”

“They are. So heads up on that.” Izumo refills their cups with sake.

“Ebisu is actually spearheading that petition,” Raidou murmurs. He meets Iruka’s shocked stare with a quirked eyebrow. 

“That can’t be right,” Iruka says, shaking his head. While Ebisu has been nothing but civil towards Iruka, Iruka always felt an underlying dislike under it all. It’s not that Ebisu would ever sabotage Iruka, but working with him, especially when the Chuunin exams and end of the academic year is approaching is painful. Ebisu questions most if not all of Iruka’s suggestions to the point that Iruka has steered clear of him. He had dismissed it as some sort of rivalry - albeit one-sided. To hear that Ebisu, of all people, actually wants him back at the Academy catches Iruka off guard. “He’s the one guy I thought would be happy to see me gone.”

“Iruka, you were born to lead the Academy. Even Ebisu knows that,” Genma snorts, as he empties his sake up. 

“But then why did he have to be so…” Iruka thinks back to his teaching days, the heated discussion, the constant back and forth, the migraines he would go home with when he gets saddled with Ebisu during the Chuunin exams.

“Weird?” Izumo supplies.

“Annoying?” Kotetsu suggests.

“Competitive?” Raidou offers.

Iruka sighs, his shoulders slumping in resignation, giving up on trying to understand the thought process of people. “Well, that petition is not going to work unless Hokage-sama orders me back to the Academy. I rather like my current post. As flattering as it is to have Ebisu, of all people, want me back.” 

“Though, you have to admit, it’s a comfort to know you’re wanted, when the time comes that you’re ready to go back, hmm?” Genma says, deceptively casual.

Iruka looks at him for a long time, his sake cup poised midway to his lips. 

Iruka wants to tell him that going back to the Academy, a place that he loves would mean he still had a part of him that he can give away to his students. Going back to the Academy, whenever that day may be, would mean that he has made peace with the loss that sits like a permanent organ in his chest. Going back would mean returning to the norm, when nothing about his present or his future can ever go back to normal. He’s going to spend the rest of his life loving Tenzou for much longer than when Iruka knew him. Strange as that may be. Love, after all, is no way relative to the amount of time you knew the love of your life for.

To feel love -- any kind of love -- means he’s healing. It means he’s got space in his heart.

Iruka didn’t want that space in his heart.

He didn’t want to love anymore.

So he smiles at Genma instead, agreeing to disagree. 

If Genma notices it, he doesn’t bring it up.  
  


*

They part ways at a junction, with Iruka mentioning his new address to them and somehow, managing to be cajoled into joining them for drinks after the fireworks during the Fire Festival. 

Iruka knows his friends are concerned, that this is their way of supporting him when he’s drawn far too inwards than ever before.

He tells himself it might be fun. The festival that is.

At the very least, he can get drunk enough without it looking like he’s trying to join his husband in the afterlife.

His friends, after all, would have his back if he ever ended up with alcohol poisoning.

*

Iruka sleeps and dreams of falling. 

He falls backwards, watching the sky above him shrink as the towering heights of rocky mountains casts him into the shadows. Iruka grapples around him, channels his chakra in a futile attempt to break his fall, realizing how foolish of an attempt it is when there’s nothing for him to grapple on.

Then he’s drowning, air bubbles rising to the surface, bones shattered from the impact of the fall, his broken body sinking like dead weight towards the riverbed, the current sweeping him away, choking out his screams, staining the space around him in crimson as he struggles for the surface, his lungs filling with water.

And then he’s gasping, sitting up in bed, drenched in cold sweat as his shaking hands flatten over his heaving chest.

Iruka looks at the clock and sees 1 AM.

In the silence of his small studio apartment, Iruka’s breath is loud, harsh gasps reverberating and bouncing off of each wall. Iruka gets out of bed and finds that his legs does not cooperate, making him fall to his knees on the ground with a jolting thump that shocks him into a more alert state. He crawls to the bathroom, struggling to breathe, twisting the tap on and pressing icy cold water to his neck, his fingers shaking, shaking, shaking, his heart hammering, hammering, hammering.

Iruka is scared.

Good heavens, he’s terrified.

He sits there, huddled against the wall of his bathroom, focusing on the sound of rushing tap and counting his breaths until he calms down, managing to gather enough wit and strength to turn the faucet off.

Did Tenzou feel that way when he fell? Did he panic when he realized there’s no swimming up or down, that north is south, or east is west, as the currents sweep him through rock and sand? Did he scream as the water filled his lungs? 

Did he fight as strong as he can to try to reach the surface?

Did he think of home as the darkness finally claimed his body?

Iruka shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his palms to his eye sockets, his hand trembling with a shake as he tries to breathe through the wedged spike in his throat -- and gods, it’s freezing. It’s so fucking cold. 

When Iruka opens his eyes, he’s sitting on the covered mattress of the bed he shared with his husband, right in the middle, knees to his chest, the shadows around him so still as he he catches glimpses of Konoha’s glittering village lights in between the gaps of the drawn curtains. He doesn’t know how he got there so fast, still dressed in his thick sweatpants, t-shirt and hooded sweatshirt, his feet still encased in woolen socks. Iruka doesn’t remember leaving his apartment, doesn’t even remember making the journey across the village, either.

He’s not sure what time it is, either.

There’s a form standing by the window, the hood of the travel cloak off, the surface of the porcelain gleaming under the narrow strip of light permeating from between the curtain gap. Cat’s mask continues to stare at Iruka, as silent as shadows shrouding the abandoned home. 

Iruka should be afraid.

He should be terrified that his grief has formed this illusion. 

He should be worried.

Instead, he finds comfort staring at the mask, this figment of his imagination as he slowly lowers himself to the mattress on his side, tired, so very tired, not breaking eye contact with eye holes that remain as black the night, no sign of life or anything human under the menacing mask. 

“I can’t do this,” Iruka says softly. “How am I supposed to be happy without you here? How do I try?” 

Cat says nothing. 

But he moves, as if floating on air to sit on the corner of the bed, facing the curtains, the same way Tenzou has done several times in the past.

The sight of it, the familiarity of it, shatters something. 

Iruka throws an arm over his head and weeps into the dusty sheet covering the mattress, as his body wracks with grief that show no sign of alleviating. Through it all, Cat remains unmoving on his seated position on the edge of the bed, his head not even turning even as Iruka’s sobs takes on a hysteric tinge.

*

Konoha is a vision to behold, morphing to a place of unrestrained joy where its citizens dress in a riot of colorful yukatas to rival any gardener’s paradise. Festive beats lift the spirits, making people hum along to the cacophony of songs blasting from every corner of the main square, where game stalls, food stalls, performance stages and puppet booths have been erected. Like every year prior and post the Kyuubi’s attack, the Fire Festival is a time to celebrate being alive, a reminder of what Konoha remains strong after several devastating disasters and wars that followed. White lanterns painted with Konoha’s fire symbol circle the main square as opposed to criss-crossing overhead; it is to make space for the release of lanterns for souls that were lost in battle later. It isn’t quite as colorful as Konoha’s Spring Festival but it doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

Iruka sees none of it. 

It is hard to appreciate the festivities when one looks at the world behind the fog of a unending mourning.

Iruka leans against the street lamp post, snacking on a hazelnut-chocolate flavored taiyaki while waiting for his friends to show up. Some of the sweetness of the snack permeates to the ash that seems to have itself a permanent fixture around Iruka’s tongue. It’s good, Iruka thinks, as he crumples the colored paper to a ball and tosses it to a nearby trash bin, tucking his hands under the sleeves of his dark red yukata, as he burrows deeper into the thick, navy blue haori. He is the only one in a haori, so far, his feet also wrapped in thicker tabi socks fitting for winter as opposed to the comfortable autumn weather. A mild breeze blows by, triggering a shudder to go down the length of Iruka’s spine as he crosses his arms and fidgets a little with impatience. Keeping his hair down for more warmth does nothing to stave off the cold and keep his neck and face mostly covered. 

He should have taken his time to show up, knowing that Izumo and Kotetsu would be late. 

Iruka waits another ten minutes.

When Izumo and Kotetsu fail to show up, Iruka abandons his place and ducks into one of the inner streets that’s lined with bars, their doors thrown wide open and boards erected indicating their specials for the festivities. Iruka orders himself a bottle of hot sake and proceeds to work his way through the entire bottle in silence.

He’s not sure how long he stays there for, how much time goes by. 

The only thing he’s sure of is the warm elbow that burns like a furnace when it brushes against the sleeve of his haori. The only thing he’s sure of is the curious interest glimmering like diamonds in the eyes of a stranger who is looking at him with a bit of a lopsided smirk and an inviting head tilt. That brush of the stranger’s elbow turns to a caress, a hand curling around Iruka’s shoulder, warm, so, so warm, comforting that it draws Iruka like a moth to a flame, dazed and wanting nothing more than to push the cold away for just a little while.

And when the stranger’s hands slip under Iruka’s yukata collar, when it pulls it apart, sends the sash drifting in a whispered rustle to the slightly grimy floors of the shadowed alley, when this stranger pushes Iruka up the wall, the rough brick digging into soft cotton fabric, Iruka forgets the cold. He drowns at the sight of Konoha’s night sky, peppered with a hundreds of golden lanterns rising to the heavens, as the the stranger’s cock fills him and spreads him wide open, rough, callous, unkind, nothing remotely gentle or loving about the act save for the welcoming burn suddenly engulfs Iruka like a funeral pyre.

It’s good.

It feels so fucking good. Being used like this. 

(Dying like this.)

And when it’s all over and Iruka comes not with pleasure but with relief that leaves him sagging against the wall, as the stranger drops him, smirks at him, pats him against the cheek and disappears without a second look back. Iruka collapses weakly on the ground, a rumpled, sticky, sweaty mess, panting as he tugs his yukata around him a little tighter, cum dripping down his ass, staining the fabric of his yukata, keeping his head ducked as the cold slowly starts to creep in again.

Iruka shudders, shaking his head as he picks himself up. He straightens his yukata with suddenly numb and shaking fingers, unable to feel the soreness the stranger left his body with as he sucks in several breaths before stepping back into the light and crowd.

Amidst the throngs of people staring skywards, Iruka is the only one keeping his head down, as he bypasses people and steps into the bar once more. 

He does not find his friends that night.

But he finds comfort and relief from the cold in the arms of several strangers, his sense of time warping. Strangers who have no qualms marking him, indulging in his request to be harder, rougher, taking turns with him, rough handling him, dousing him with heat that makes him drift between the planes of consciousness and unconsciousness. 

Iruka loses count after a while, too tired, too warm, too sore. 

He falls asleep undisturbed on a bed he does not recognize, unsure if it’s dark outside or if dawn had begun to paint the horizon.

TBC 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad, bad decision making Iruka. Really bad.
> 
> Tenzou, fucking hell. IDEK


	7. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Kakashi isn’t sure if he should be concerned when he arrives at the office at half-past-ten that Monday morning to find Iruka nowhere in sight. Iruka does not show up for the rest of the day. It isn’t like him to not send word if he’s ill, or if he’s going to be late. Despite everything, Iruka has been nothing short of professional even when grief seems to want to drag him underground.

The next day, when Iruka still doesn’t show up, it triggers a restlessness alongside a swoop of guilt that makes Kakashi sigh and stand up from his desk, clapping his book shut and stepping out of the suddenly, very suffocating office.

A quick trip to Iruka’s new address proves to be futile; Iruka isn’t home. 

A casual stroll past Tea Avenue also proves to be futile because Iruka neither at Ichiraku’s, his favorite tea house, or the bookstore. There is no sign of his chakra signature at the market, or any of the izakayas that line the inner street. It is late in the afternoon when Kakashi finally makes his way to the memorial stone, where he still finds no signs of Iruka anywhere. 

Kakashi sighs at lack of presence anywhere, his gaze sweeping over Tenzou’s engraved name. 

“I am not sure what to do…” He confesses softly, as the guilt rises like bile at the back of his. “I shouldn’t have sent you on that mission.”

As always, the dead provide no answers.

*

It must have been a stroke of luck that by late evening, Kakashi finds a familiar figure in a red yukata and blue haori walking the predominantly quieter streets of Tea Avenue, bypassing the last of the few storekeepers locking up their shops, leaving the streets to gradually dim for the night.

Iruka doesn’t look like himself walking in a daze.

When Kakashi walks closer, he sees the imperfection of the knotted obi how it’s a little lopsided, uneven in its knot. He sees the creases in the fabric that Iruka must have tried to straighten out with flattened palms. The usually immaculate ponytail is gone. Instead, Kakashi spots the tangles in his damp hair, how Iruka has gathered it up in a hasty and crooked bun at the top of his head, leaning a little to the left rather than it's usual perch in the center. 

But what draws Kakashi's attention the most is the way Iruka keeps himself huddled, how he looks like he’s freezing when the weather forecast for that day remains relatively warm; it certainly does not warrant a thick haori. Not yet. It is the way Iruka keeps his head ducked, like he’s protecting himself from an invisible attack, boxed in, almost afraid.

Iruka stops inches away from walking into Kakashi, startled, caught off guard, eyes blown wide.

“Kakashi-sama,” Iruka greets, the honorary title present given how they’re in public, clearing his throat and dipping his head in polite greeting.

Kakashi hums in response, taking in the slight slump of Iruka’s shoulder, the careful way he keeps himself standing upright. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d show up.”

“Oh, was there something you needed from me? I wasn’t made aware on Thursday that you may need me. You know I’m not opposed to working on weekends…” Iruka tapers off, concern somehow pushing more light into his more often than not, flat and blank gaze.

Kakashi’s eyebrows shoots up, disappearing under the fabric and metal of his forehead protector. He could point out how it’s a Tuesday night, that the festivities ended two days ago. He could point out how Iruka is failing to uphold his work ethic, how he’s getting sloppy. He could point out how Iruka is fucking up mercilessly and call it a day.

It’d be easy.

What comes out instead, is this:

“Ahh, did I mix up my days again?” Kakashi tilts his head to the side.

It earns him a huffing sound of amusement, a ghost of smile that makes a dimple peek out for just the briefest moment. It softens the cold, hard, jagged edges around Iruka, giving one a glimpse of the tender, loving person underneath the shell of a man he is nowadays. It’s almost worth the lie, watching that expression flicker on and off on Iruka’s face as he ducks his head and clears his throat once more.

“Is there something you need?” Iruka prompts politely, gently. Kakashi shakes his head in reply and that prompts Iruka to dip his head again. “Then, if that is all, Kakashi-sama, I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

“Good night, Iruka,” Kakashi responds, side stepping and watching Iruka amble away carefully down the street, his steps measured, back ramrod straight.

Kakashi isn't sure why his stomach churns at the sight.

*

Winter comes to Konoha with a ferociousness it’s never seen before.

They battle a snowstorm a little too early, the strong winds rattling the glass and trapping Kakashi and his administration staff within the walls of the Hokage’s office. They remain indoors for hours, watching the world beyond the glass get lost in a sea of white. Within the four walls of his office, he is subjected to watch Iruka shift repeatedly in his seat, rubbing his hands between his knees, suppressing a flinch, when the small space heater beside him is already on full blast. 

Kakashi finds it odd how Iruka wears gloves indoors, how he doesn’t take the woolen cap off his head, tugging it all the way down to cover his ears when the warmth of the space heater by his desk, suffice to say, is border-lining on uncomfortable. It’s not really any of Kakashi’s business how Iruka chooses to dress. Kakashi's desk is far enough in the spacious office to not really be affected by the patch of extremely hot area that surrounds Iruka’s desk. 

It’s a little concerning, Kakashi decides. A little odd.

He watches Iruka shift again, rubbing the edge of his scar with a gloved finger before he sighs, shoulders slumping and clearly not being able to concentrate. 

It’s past eleven in the evening when Kakashi pushes his chair back and heads towards the cabinet in the corner, where some of the gifts to the Hokage are stashed. He takes out a bottle of whiskey, the cap still sealed and takes out two glasses from his drawer. He sits himself on the corner of Iruka’s desk, setting the glass down in front of Iruka’s startled expression. He breaks the seal off the cap and pours two fingers in each glass.

“Give up,” Kakashi announces. “It’s past eleven o’clock. Just because we’re stuck here, it doesn’t mean I expect you to continue working.” 

“So we’re drinking instead?” Iruka blinks, confused, eyeing the drink in front him.

“It’s a cold night, so, why not? Can you think of a better excuse to not consume some of the finer gifts to this office?” Kakashi challenges; it earns him a small upwards tilt of Iruka’s lips. 

“I guess when you put it that way…” Iruka murmurs, as he carefully picks up the glass, raising it towards Kakashi. “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Kakashi returns, clinking their glasses together.

Iruka tips the contents backwards in one go, as if consuming a shot, just as Kakashi takes a languid sip from his. Kakashi isn’t sure if that’s a good thing, but he pours Iruka a second glass anyway. Thankfully, Iruka doesn’t tip this backwards like a shot. Kakashi watches instead, as Iruka drinks half of it, his gaze resting unseeingly on the stack of folders 

“This is good whiskey, Kakashi-san,” Iruka prompts. “Thank you for sharing.”

“Help yourself,” Kakashi offers, taking another slow sip from his glass. “We’re going to be here all night. Might as well, hmm?” Iruka makes a non-committal noise as he sets his empty glass down but makes no motion to refill it. “How have you been?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking.” It comes out politely dismissive. Kakashi doesn’t deem that with a response. Iruka stares at his glass quietly, the pause dragging on before he resignedly says, “You should have told me that I missed two days of work instead of dismissing it. That kind of tardiness is not something you should tolerate, you know?”

“It happens,” Kakashi dismisses, remembering the way Iruka had been tensed when he returned to work that day, the disoriented look remaining on his face throughout the rest of the day.

“Does it?” Iruka looks up.

“It happens.” Kakashi repeats. 

“When I’m alone I see Cat’s shadow follow me around. A few months ago, during my mission to River, I thought I saw him. He was buying fruit in the market at River’s port town.” Iruka visibly swallows, as his inhales and exhales starts to come out a little too controlled, a little too measured. “Does that… _happen_ , Kakashi-san?”

Kakashi isn’t sure how to respond to that when he knows how the dead can linger around one’s peripheral vision. He knows how the dead would haunt one’s dreams, how sometimes, even when one’s eyes remain wide open, they can manifest in shadows, a flicker under the halogen light, or sometimes, they’re just voices that scream or laugh or say shit like, I’m going to be the Hokage or, people who leave their friends behind are worse than trash.

Kakashi swallows, his stomach swooping inwards, the whiskey suddenly tasting too sour, like rot, at the base of his stomach. 

“When you lose someone you love, seeing them happens; don’t think lesser of yourself just because you’re grieving. Time to grieve is of no consequence. You can be grieving for a decade and there’s nothing wrong with that,” Kakashi says softly, gravel gritting at the back of his throat as he pours Iruka another two fingers of whiskey. “Do you really think I’d think less of you just because you see your husband when he isn’t there?”

Iruka shrugs helplessly with one shoulder, unable to quite form words.

“I do not think you’re unfit to do your duty, Iruka. I won’t penalize you for missing two days of work just because you’re going through a rough time. You lost a husband -- that’s no small thing.” Kakashi stares at the whiskey in his glass, swirling it.

“I miss him,” Iruka says, whisper-soft. “I miss him so, _so_ very much Kakashi-san.”

“I know…” Kakashi murmurs, defeated, guilty.

(And it’s my fault.)

*

By the time the storm passes through, Iruka has his head pillowed in between his arms on the desk, the bottle of whiskey half empty, his vest hanging on the back of his chair and fast asleep as dawn creeps up the horizon. Kakashi reaches out to shake him awake, to tell him to go home when his hands pauses midway at the sight of dark bruises lining the nape of Iruka’s neck. It’s visible now, dark, mottled, a greenish tinge to it, thin tight lines that looks far too familiar. Kakashi knows what it’s like, to want your breath measured, to have it controlled as black peppers the corners of your vision, how that brief moment of lack of breath is enough to dull the pain that never goes away, because you’re suddenly focused on that moment, that present, the here and now as opposed to the memories of the past and loved ones long gone.

He’s had marks like that before, tucked away from the eyes of the world. 

Kakashi isn’t one to judge anyone in their coping mechanisms.

Not when he knows he’s not exactly any better.

He’s spent years trying to bury trauma through rough sex and chakra depletion. He’s aware of how easy it is to slip into deep end of both those things, how succumbing to the dark is so very tempting. How there are days where getting up is a challenge because the guilt is a weight pressing you down heavier than lead.

The difference between himself and Iruka, however, was that during those times, Kakashi had partners he could trust. 

(There was never any words required between himself and Tenzou; Tenzou always knew exactly what Kakashi needed. It comes from years of experience, years of blood and war in the shadows. It comes from understanding.)

He’s not quite sure if Iruka had that kind of support system. If the individual who marks smooth, soft skin does it because they know they should, because they know this is the only way to make the yawning loss feel not as deep for a few heartbeats, or they leave it because they don’t care for what Iruka needs. Because they don’t quite understand how those precious minutes of engaging in something physical is a blessing and relief all rolled into one.

Kakashi hopes that they do it because they care for Iruka, that they want him to have a moment of peace, however brief.

He hopes.

But there’s a recklessness in the mottled bruising, how it looks more like an injury than passion. 

Kakashi shudders a breath, the guilt carving a little deeper, the sight of those hideous marks salting his wounds as he swallows past it all and gently shakes Iruka awake, telling him to go home.

(Those marks on Iruka’s body -- it’s his fault too.)

*

Kakashi starts to notice a lot more things after that storm.

He notices how Iruka shows up on Mondays sluggish, like he’s navigating his day through a fog. He would lose focus several times during the day, spacing out or looking at something in front of him but not really in the present.

He notices how Iruka has stopped folding the sleeves of his uniform, how it falls to cover the skin past his wrists. When Kakashi thinks about it, Iruka has always worn his uniform with the sleeves folded evenly and neatly all the way to mid-forearm. 

Iruka stopped putting his hair up in a high ponytail, opting for a low one instead, the strands longer, falling and curling in wisps around his neckline. It’s additional cover, Kakashi realizes, to the bruises that he starts to catch very few glimpses off when Iruka moves. There are days when the blue and purple marks would hike past the collar of his uniform, that not even the shadow of their standard-issue Chuunin vest can disguise. Not from Kakashi's gaze anyway, because Kakashi, well he knows _where_ to look.

Then there are days where Iruka does his work while standing, his footsteps measured. On those days, when Iruka thinks Kakashi is not looking, he would shudder whenever he would lower himself to his chair, or stand up from his chair.

But Kakashi is always watching now. He can tell, from behind the pages of his colorful books on which days the bruises under Iruka’s uniform hurt the most.

Iruka does his best to perform his duty to the village. Iruka doesn’t allow the pain he doesn’t successfully hide too well -- not from Kakashi, anyway -- hinder his work or his ability to complete his tasks in a timely manner. 

Iruka's good. He's got the entire world fooled, it seems. What with his perfect, polite smiles, his punctuality, his meticulous planning and organizing.

Kakashi isn’t one to interfere with people’s choices.

He just wishes he had the words to express his concern despite the fact that he knows that he had little to absolutely no right to do so.

*

Winter segues to spring and then into early summer.

It is on a relatively warm evening that Kakashi spots Iruka slip into one of the seedier bars lining the back streets of Tea Avenue, dressed down and resembling a civilian - a place that is frequented, to put mildly, by the great awash of Konoha’s citizens. It isn’t exactly a place for someone like Iruka. Kakashi himself would think twice about stepping into a place like that.

He wouldn’t have pegged iruka to step into such a place, either. He would have thought a place like Silver Swan would be more his scene, or at most, the Golden Barrel where one can indulge on the kinkier side of things.

Kakashi begins to walk away, leaving Iruka to his devices when he spots a group of young men surrounding him, gang up on him, laughing drunkenly when it’s not even past nine in the evening. He hears slurs, words that should never be directed to someone like Iruka, echo past the ajar door of the small darkened bar. You’re here again, they say. You really enjoy being a dirty whore huh, they say. You’re absolutely shameless, they say.

Iruka would have argued against it, Kakashi knows.

Would have not tolerated such slurs directed to his person.

Or to anyone.

Iruka is just that kind of a guy. 

But Kakashi stares, mutely, finding himself inside the bar, as Iruka simply sits on his stool, sipping a dark colored cocktail from a straw, not contesting a word that leaves their mouths. Not even when they taunt him by saying they’d bring more friends over, that they’d take turns fucking him because he likes it that way, that they’d make sure he wouldn’t be able to stand when they’re done with him, all of it peppered with obnoxious laughter that Iruka simply _smiles_ at self-deprecatingly.

They had no fucking right to speak to Iruka this way.

Not a shred of it, however microscopic.

Iruka who is honorable, hard working, honest and kind. The only man in Konoha that found it in his heart to accept a boy who contained a beast when no one else would. He raised a hero, is beloved by many. How dare they treat him like this? Speak to him like this? Call him filthy names like it’s his title?

How fucking dare they?

Kakashi has to remind himself that this is not his business.  
  
That this is Iruka’s choice.

That this is probably something he’s been doing for _months_.

But then one of them grabs Iruka by the chin, yanks him off his seat roughly, painfully, that it leaves Iruka flinching as soft hands come up to pull that hand off him.

It is that tiniest hint of resistance that makes Kakashi step forward, title and rank be damned, his hand wrapping around the wrist of the obnoxious stranger in warning. 

There is satisfaction in watching the color drain from their faces, how they stagger in their steps backwards, apologies fumbling past blubbering lips before the party of four disappears like flies being swatted away. The bar is relatively empty once the four men make their exit, leaving Kakashi, Iruka, the bartender and a few other scattered patrons in the far corners of the small space.

“Ahh, now you’ve scared them away,” Iruka sighs, defeated, _tired_ , slumping back on his stool and resuming to sip his cocktail that Kakashi recognizes to be a strong one. He can smell the alcohol mix, all of it masked with something noxiously sweet to hide the bitterness. It’s a deceiving drink. 

“Iruka, I’m taking you home,” Kakashi says, and frowns when Iruka laughs at his statement.

“Unless your intention is to fuck me all weekend, then no, you’re not. Please leave, you’re scaring everyone else off.” Iruka stirs his drink, not bothering to look up from it. “And if I recall correctly, I’m off duty. Unless there’s something you need me for in the office. Which would explain your presence here. Do you need something from me for the office?”

Something flares in Kakashi’s chest, foreign and strange at the words.

All weekend.

Iruka would have gone with those four men, in whatever godforsaken corner of the village, and spend all weekend getting _used_. 

Those uncaring, obnoxious, selfish scum of the earth would be responsible for Iruka’s limited movements come Monday, for the eerie and dazed silence that would follow not because it felt good but because it hurts too much to do anything more. 

Was Iruka even sober?

Kakashi turns to the bartender. “How many of these has he had?”

“One, Hokage-sama,” The bartender responds.

Kakashi makes a decision.

“Let’s go,” Kakashi says, the words coming out like a command, as he plucks the glass away and setting it aside.

“Excuse me?” Iruka’s unimpressed look melts to one of irritation, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“All weekend, right? You were quite ready to go with those four men earlier which gives me the impression that it doesn’t matter to you who you go home with. You clearly do not care how disappointed Tenzou would be if he was--”

“He’s fucking dead!” Iruka snaps, standing up from his stool. Iruka glares with a rage burning as bright as a forest fire, a flush staining his cheeks, radiating down to his throat and disappearing past the collar of his uniform. It’s the most reactive to _anything_ Kakashi has seen in a very long time. “Last I checked, dead people don’t give a damn about the living! So don’t throw that at me!”

Kakashi wants to say he’s wrong.

That they do care.

He knows they do.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Kakashi prompts again, challenging, almost cold in his delivery as he wraps fingers around Iruka’s forearm, tugging him off the stool and onto his feet.

Kakashi is met with little resistance when he yanks Iruka flush against his chest, when he shunshins them out of the bar and right into the guest bedroom in the Hokage’s official residence. Suddenly thrown into darkness, with the moonlight flooding through the parted drapes, Kakashi _slams_ Iruka right against the wooden door, the shocked whimper cutting through the silence that is a never ending presence in a house that Kakashi actually, quite frankly, detests.

(It’s too big. Too grand. Too much. All for show.)

Kakashi boxes Iruka in, both gloved palms on either side of his head, watching how Iruka breathes through the shock and disorientation of being somewhere else, how his gaze flickers upwards and then downwards like he’s embarrassed, like he’s ashamed. Kakashi’s fingers traces a line down Iruka’s jaw, watching how Iruka’s lower lip trembles at the feather-light caress that stops right over a thundering pulse. Iruka’s pupils are blown wide, an open book that leaves him looking quite debauched from just being slammed up against the door, from being barely touched like this.

It’s quite a sight to behold if Kakashi is being honest.

The thought is squashed down immediately.

“Scared?” Kakashi asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I am not afraid of you,” Iruka counters, the words honest and not at all a front. “If I was, I wouldn’t last this long in your office.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” Kakashi reaches up to tug his forehead protector off, tossing it aside towards the dresser, where it lands with a clang, silver strands drooping and cutting across his face. “But we are nowhere near an office, right now.”

“You’re right,” Iruka agrees and looks up, eyes dark, swallowing with what looks like nervousness despite the bravado. “And you’re still talking. Are you gonna fuck me or what?”

Kakashi sucks in a deep breath, a part of him switching off with the task at hand as he tugs his mask down before he closes his eyes and slants their mouths together. He swallows the muffled sound that leaves Iruka’s mouth, a gloved hand coming up to wrap around the side of Iruka’s neck, squeezing firmly, listening to how Iruka’s breath hitches under him.

It’s all the prompting Iruka apparently needs because Iruka’s hands are on him, pushing the length of the robe away, the heavy white cloth falling to the floor with a rustle. Soft, shaking fingers fumble to the zipper of Kakashi’s vest, the zipper coming down in one strong, vicious and impatient tug, the sound of it cutting through their muffled breaths and the brush of their lips. Kakashi pulls back, long enough to shuck the vest off, the taste of something sweet thick upon his lips, before he dives in for Iruka’s mouth again, gloved fingers wrapping around the ponytail securing Iruka’s hair in place and _yanking_. The elastic band snaps free, tearing in half and joining the vest and Hokage robes on the floor, just as Iruka’s hair tumbles freely over his shoulder, the sharp, rather heady scent of citrus and cinnamon flooding Kakashi’s senses.

It makes him reel, the smell of Iruka, how it’s so strong, so potent, with the undertones of desire that erupts like an angry volcano, all hot and molten magma as Iruka yanks his mouth back and trails open mouth kisses down Kakashi’s neck, over the fabric of his shirt that Iruka now begins to tug upwards.

Kakashi’s shirt joins the mess on the floor, with it Iruka’s thick, cotton shirt -- something that doesn’t even suit the early summer weather at all. That’s when he sees it, the mapped out bruises, hand prints, fingers, all of it decorating Iruka’s torso like the topography of battle scars on Kakashi’s torso. They’re discolored, hideous, tells a story of a grief that will never, ever end, just like how the scars on Kakashi’s body, raised and dipped, jagged and smooth, tells a story of a lifetime of war.

Iruka drops to his knees, the sound of flesh hitting the polished wooden floor loud as he starts to undo Kakashi’s pants, how his hands -- soft, warm, smooth, wonderful -- tugs the fabric down mid thigh just as his lips snap over the semi-hardened flesh of Kakashi’s cock, taking him in all the way down, greedy, hungry, eyes shut and fuck.

Fuck.

Kakashi’s hands balls into fists against the door, as he forces himself to hold very still, a shudder going down the length of his spine as he tries not to jerk his hips into Iruka’s mouth. Because by the gods, Iruka is good, he feels good, his mouth a fucking furnace, hungry, ravenous, uncaring how he makes a mess that dribbles down his chin, sucking off the ribald flavor of Kakashi’s pre-cum, throat humming like this is what he’s wanted all along, a hard cock in his mouth.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Kakashi wants to stop him, to pull that mouth of him and put a stop to all this. To slow down a little bit because Iruka doesn't know what he’s doing. That Iruka must surely be going with the motions, just touching and feeling warm flesh in his mouth and under his palms when the world around him is always so icy cold. Because losing Tenzou has darkened his skies, robbed him of the warmth of a sun whose presence Iruka has grown to depend on.

Iruka isn’t slowing down, is working Kakashi’s cock like he’s in a hurry, like he’s chasing time and it’s with magnanimous effort that Kakashi reaches down and _yanks_ Iruka’s mouth off his cock, dragging his head back as far as it would go, the motion severing gossamer strands of saliva and pre-cum when Iruka _gasps_ , one eye scrunching as he grounds his teeth in a snarl.

“What?” Iruka snaps. 

Kakashi isn’t even sure what to say in the wake of that temper, that irritation, when he’s the one who offered, he’s the one who brought Iruka here, who had agreed to his offer for a weekend fuck when he didn’t have to. Iruka can fuck the entire village and it still wouldn’t be Kakashi’s business.

There’s nothing Kakashi can say to that.

There really isn’t. 

(Thinking more about what he’s doing would be dangerous, how he’s putting his hands on someone too broken because he’s sent his husband away to die. How Iruka is what he is now because Kakashi’s poor judgment call sent the one of the very few people he cares for that’s left on this earth to die. How he, as always, is only ever good at destroying things that are beautiful. Tenzou and Iruka’s love had been beautiful; look what it’s been reduced to now.)

Kakashi suddenly can’t bare to look at Iruka’s face. 

He can’t bare to see those micro-expressions, how flecks of gold really do glimmer in the depths of his beautiful eyes. 

So Kakashi jerks Iruka to his feet by his hair, uncaring about the pained cry that leaves Iruka’s mouth as he compartmentalizes everything that matters in his chest to the deepest parts of him. He spins Iruka towards the bed, shoving him face first and down into the mattress, uncaring as he spreads Iruka’s legs obscenely wide, like he’s nothing more than a common street whore at a red light district. There’s not enough lube on his fingers when he pushes past the ring of muscle, not enough care, or gentleness in the action when a second finger joins the first and Iruka’s cries are muffled into the sheets. It’s cruel, rough, a little thoughtless how Kakashi scissors through it, curling his fingers, watching as Iruka’s hips tremble and his back arches when Kakashi’s fingers brushes against the soft, bundle of muscle within, how it makes Iruka _gasp_ at the ceiling, his cock hard and dripping a sticky, clear mess on the sheets. 

Oh gods, Iruka says, shuddering, his voice hoarse. Make it hurt, please, please, please, gods, please make it hurt, Iruka begs.

And it shatters something small and weak in Kakashi’s chest, makes him swallow past the suffocating tightness in his throat. To derive pleasure from so much pain because physical pain that leaves bruises on top of older bruises is a lot better to face and focus on that the loss of the love of your life -- Kakashi closes his eyes, teeth sinking against his lower lip as he pushes into Iruka’s body in one, rough, unyielding thrust.

Iruka _screams_.

It echoes throughout the house, piercing through Kakashi’s eardrums as he moves against Iruka’s body, pushes through that tight ring of muscle that needs more preparation, more lube, more than this reckless treatment Kakashi is dishing out. It is exactly what Iruka needs, he knows this. He understands this. More than anyone.

The knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better.

He fucks Iruka like this, flesh slapping on flesh, each thrust punctuated by a cry that turns gravelly, until Iruka is a shaking mess and coming too soon with a shudder that leaves him weak and unable to support himself upright on the mattress.

Kakashi wraps a tight fist against the base of his cock, gritting his teeth as he immediately pulls out of Iruka’s ass, shoving iruka by the globe of his ass away, and breathing through his own cresting pleasure, trying to put a stop to it because he doesn’t want to come yet, he’s not ready to come yet because Iruka, Kakashi knows, is far from done.

It takes a few minutes to calm down, Kakashi’s cock twitching as he manages to get his breathing in control, just long enough to leave Iruka there and return with a cock-ring in place. 

This isn’t about pleasure.

Certainly not for Kakashi.

It’s survival.

Iruka takes one look at him and Kakashi swears, if he didn’t have the cock ring in place, that ravenous hunger that suddenly surfaces all over Iruka’s face would have done him in.

*

Kakashi watches Iruka lean back on his hands, hips rolling as he rides Kakashi’s hardened cock, jaw slack as he stares at the ceiling. Kakashi has lost track of time, only aware that the position of the moon has changed. He’s not sure if an hour has gone by or if it’s two.

“I want to feel you come in me,” Iruka suddenly says.

“No,” Kakashi responds roughly, coldly, and when Iruka opens his mouth to protest, Kakashi brings his hand to grab Iruka by the lower half of his face roughly, fingers digging into smooth skin and pulling him close enough for their foreheads to touch. “Don’t talk. Just fuck yourself on my cock until you come.” 

Iruka _whimpers_ , one eye scrunched shut as Kakashi increases the force of his grip, as Iruka desperately obeys the command handed out and starts to increase the pace of his thrusts. 

He rides Kakashi like he’s desperate, each downwards slam punctuated with a soft cry that Kakashi muffles by pushing his fingers into that pertinent mouth, limiting Iruka’s intake of air as one pale hand grabs Iruka roughly by the ass cheek, lifting him up and slamming him down brutally, hard, unyiedling, unforgiving.

Iruka comes like that, choking and shuddering, splatters of white heat coating his and Kakashi’s chest as he remains still and staring at the ceiling, saliva trickling down his chin, looking nothing like the prim and proper man the village knows him as.

“I’m not done with you,” Kakashi warns, slapping Iruka’s cheek a little sharply a few times, jostling him out of his post-orgasm haze. “On your back.”

Iruka is too slow. Too sluggish in his movements.

So Kakash shoves Iruka backwards, watching him cry out weakly as he slips off Kakashi’s engorged cock, collapsing on his side as he tiredly rolls on his back, legs spread, ready, his stretched ass hole spasming around nothing, glossy from Kakashi’s pre-cum and stained white from Iruka’s own cum. 

Kakashi grabs both of Iruka’s hands, wraps it around Iruka’s own cock and says. “Stroke. Get hard. Come on.”

Iruka’s fingers are shaking but they obey.

They stroke at the soft length, willing it back to arousal that takes forever. Kakashi punctuates each stroke by crawling up to straddle Iruka’s head, pushing his cock into his mouth and choking him with it, filling Iruka’s throat with pre-cum that leaves Iruka gagging, wet, garbled noises escaping his throat. He doesn’t stop stroking his cock, doesn’t dare disobey what Kakashi wants and something about makes Kakashi’s throat go dry. It makes him wish that circumstances were different, that they weren’t fucking because they’re both grieving, because the thought of Iruka being treated unkindly when he’s already suffering from a loss he will never recover from somehow is something that Kakashi somehow, isn’t able to tolerate.

He could come like this, fill Iruka’s mouth with cum and watch him choke on his flesh.

He can fuck Iruka with a dildo until he passes out, put some sort of distance between himself and wonderful heat of Iruka’s body.

But Iruka looks up at him with tears collecting around the corners of his eyes, pupils rolling backwards, chest heaving as he _chokes_ and Kakashi yanks his cock back, somewhat pleased, perhaps even a little victorious, to find that Iruka is semi-hard once more. 

Kakashi slides into Iruka’s body, thrusts measured, slow, his thighs quivering as Iruka brings his hands up to muffle his cries, gritting his teeth as he gets split open wider until the length of his cock is engorged, dark and heavy with blood. Kakashi fucks him like that, thrusts turning brutal and angled, hitting the spot that leaves Iruka shuddering, his voice gone at this point, reduced to nothing but hoarseness as he grips the sheets and cranes his neck backwards, the length of Iruka’s body rigid as he rides the cresting pleasure.

The cock ring comes off then, tossed aside a little too viciously as Kakashi leans forward and wraps his hands around Iruka’s neck, choking his air, too tight, too hard, Iruka’s hands coming up to Kakashi’s forearms, ruddy lips parted as he tries to put voice to Kakashi’s name -- syllables Kakashi doesn’t want to hear.

Can’t bear to hear.

Because hearing Iruka say his name when they fuck would make it a little too personal, would give this some sort of meaning when it should never mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s merely a means to put a halting stop to the ache that never goes away, however temporarily.

And when Kakashi comes, it’s with a blinding heat that rips a cry out of his lips, half sob, half gasp as he thinks what a piece of shit he fucking really is, worse than scum, coming into the body of his kouhai’s husband, enjoying the way Iruka’s body wraps around his cock, clenching around him, milking him dry and taking all that he has to offer deep within.

Kakashi hates himself, hates it as he releases Iruka’s neck and watch him lie unmoving on the bed, passed out cold and cum splattered all over his abdomen, so incredibly beautiful even when he’s shattered beyond repair.

Bile rises to the back of Kakashi’s throat, as he brings a hand weakly to his lips and slumps against the edge of the bed, head ducked as he closes his eyes as salt prickles around the corners of his eyes, fogging his vision.

Forgive me, he thinks, as Tenzou’s face flashes behind his eyelids, his guilt and grief carving down his cheeks.

*

Kakashi fails to deliver his promise in fucking Iruka all weekend.

He leaves Iruka's clothes and clean towels on the bed, along with a glass of water and a note offering Iruka to help himself to whatever he wants in the kitchen.

Kakashi spends the rest of the day decimating acres of land in the Forest of Death, pummeling fistful of lighting over and over through the ground until he exhausts his reserves and slumps there, staring at the sunset colored sky, thinking _forgive me, please forgive me, forgive me._

*

Iruka is gone by the time Kakashi comes home, the bedroom straightened, dirty sheets cleaned and dried, room aired and not a trace of him anywhere.

Not visually.

But Kakashi sucks in a deep breath and catches a whiff of orange and cinnamon, that soft scent of Iruka’s pleasure cresting, the salt of his sweat, all of that lingering within the walls of his guest bedroom. 

It makes Kakashi throw the windows wide open, window frames rattling with the brute force of Kakashi's hand.

He leaves it like that, uncaring if it attracts birds and insects, if it coats the furniture in dust or whatever the fuck else.

It’s a futile attempt though.

Kakashi will never forget how Iruka tastes like, how he sounds like, how his hands feel on Kakashi’s hair when Kakashi drives his cock into his body, how he looks at him as he comes, unseeing, glazed, pleasure and pain drowning him in a sea of nothing. How fucking _beautiful_ he is.

Kakashi can understand, why all those years ago, Tenzou had not wanted him to claim the marks that had been on Tenzou’s body, when Tenzou never used to care before. Kakashi can understand why Tenzou would fall for someone who fucks the way Iruka does, how he can grow attached to the pleasure Iruka gives, when he’s so good at sucking cock, sounds so goddamn sexy when he moans, is the most beautiful when he’s coming, struggling for breath.

And when Iruka isn't fucking, Kakashi understands why Tenzou - why _anyone -_ would fall for Iruka. Iruka who sees beyond what's in front him, whose hands are steady, his heart as big and accomodating as the stretch of the blue sky above their heads. Iruka who is always considerate, forever selfless, who is fiercely loyal to his home and the people in it. Iruka who is fearless in delivering his opinion, isn't quite afraid to rise to a challenge if it involves someone he care for or his friends, Iruka whose smiles are sometimes as soft as the brush of leaves against one's cheek, or can be as cutting as a newly sharpened kunai, or as cheeky when it's trying to not quite make fun of something, someone, a situation. Not outright anyway. Iruka, whose eyes hold the golden rays of the sun, warm, mesmerizing, so fucking beautiful when they glow with delight and pride, with unrestrained joy. They're the most beautiful, Kakashi has learned, when they used to be accompanied by the dimples dotting his cheeks. 

Kakashi understands.

He really, _really_ does.

Because once you get to know Iruka, once you've learned to look past the prim and proper facade of a strict, uptight, paper-pushing teacher, he's wonderful. How can anyone not love someone like Umino Iruka when he is a reminder of all the good that's worth fighting for? 

(Forgive me.)

*

Monday morning arrives and Iruka greets him like nothing happened. 

They slip into their norm like they didn’t spend a whole a night fucking non-stop.

Kakashi is okay with that.

After all, it doesn’t mean anything.

*

But then the next weekend comes and Kakashi finds Iruka at the bar again, waiting for partners. He grabs him, manhandles him, wrenches him away from men who wants to take Iruka home and throws him against the very same bed Kakashi had fucked him into last week.

They fuck until dawn this time, with Iruka coming with a shudder as he straddles Kakashi’s lap, saliva, pre-cum and smears of blood from where Iruka had bitten through his now swollen lip a mess all over his chin, tears carving down his cheekbones.

It’s a sight that Kakashi knows will haunt him forever. Iruka coming as he cries, that is.

*

Iruka stops talking about anything remotely personal with Kakashi.

Iruka used to make small talk. Sometimes he'd talk about the book he's been reading, or the new movie that's screening in theaters. Sometimes their talk of work and handling the village's agenda would segue into talk about the new restaurant that recently opened, or how they'd indulge in village gossip if it's particularly funny and amusing. Iruka sometimes would tell him small anecdotes about the children in the Academy, how, for example, the jounin team leader Kakashi had just received from their last mission run to Waterfalls used to be a cry baby in class who had an unnatural phobia for bees. So much so that Iruka had to pull him out of the classroom one day simply because an Aburame was mimicking insect noises and the poor boy had lost his mind.

It's a funny story. It's one of the hundreds of stories Kakashi had chuckled to. 

(It's a reminder of just how many students Iruka has had over the years and sometimes, how many he's lost.) 

Now, it’s not about actual work and the current task at hand, then Iruka remains mute. 

Kakashi tells himself that it’s okay. At least Iruka isn’t missing days, is performing well and seems to be engaged in a routine of self care. Iruka doesn’t look like he’s losing weight or not taking care of himself. If anything, he’s retained his muscle mass, takes regular healthy breaks like a fully functioning adult.

He just doesn’t talk as much.

Then again, Iruka really hasn’t been himself since Tenzou been declared dead.

*

Kakashi tells himself to stop.

That he can’t keep fucking Iruka like this, no matter how much Iruka begs for his cock. 

That this can’t keep going on.

But he tells himself he’d rather have the means to take care of Iruka, to make sure he’s at least cleaned, rested, fed, taken care of rather than leave to him irresponsible and selfish individuals who care little for what Iruka needs.

The excuse works.

Until it doesn’t.

*

(The truth is that it's not that Kakashi doesn't know how to stop. Or that he doesn't know to give up the sweet taste of Iruka's lips, or that he doesn't have the ability to forget the sound of Iruka soft cries brushing against the tiers of Kakashi's lips.

It's that Kakashi doesn't want to try to forget all that.

The truth is that Kakashi just doesn't want to stop. Not anymore.)

*

It stops working when one fall Tuesday evening, as Kakashi tries to work through the pending documents on his table. Sparrow makes an appearance, handing in a report that she has written. Kakashi takes it, reads it and then gives Sparrow his thanks, dismissing her for the night and letting her know that she’ll be in the village for a few days before he sends her and the rest of Tenzou’s team on a mission again.

Chiharu would normally leave by then, except this time, she lingers. Kakashi is forced to look up, noticing the slight twitch of her fingers that prompts him to raise an eyebrow and ask, “What is it?”

“Hokage-sama, this -- I am not sure how to say this. I haven’t told anyone but, we were passing by the Port Town of River and I think -- I think I saw taichou.”

Everything in Kakashi spins to a halt, ice coming down his spine.

Port town of River.

He remembers what Iruka said months ago. How he thought he saw Tenzou buying fruit at the market.

It’s a little harder to dismiss the claim now that it's coming from a Hyuuga.

“What do you mean?” 

Sparrow tugs her mask off, revealing an apprehensive expression.

“The Port town of River is surrounded by farmlands; there was a fight, brief. I saw it from ten kilometers away. Hokage-sama, I - I know that chakra signature. I know what taichou’s chakra signature looks like. I sent a clone to confirm but it was too late. There was no -- there was no trace of the battle. There was just -- just grass. Please, Hokage-sama, allow me to go back and investigate. Let me use this break to confirm what I saw.”

Kakashi stares at Chiharu’s face and can only say, “Okay. Go. You have three days.”

Chiharu nods, bowing deeply, gratitude in her voice when she thanks him and disappears.

Kakashi sits there, his heart jack-hammering behind his ribs.

He’s not sure how long he sits there for, thinking of the possibilities of Chiharu’s claim. 

It didn’t seem enough, sending just one ANBU after Tenzou.

Kakashi bites his thumb, draws blood and summons the pack.

“Go to the Port town of River. Find Tenzou. Expand your search if you need to. Keep me posted.”

The pack barks, no questions rising at the delivery of the command. It must have been all over Kakashi’s face, how suddenly nervous and afraid of what it may all mean for Tenzou to be alive.

Because if he’s alive, why hasn’t he come home yet?

(Oh gods, forgive me.)  
  
  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELPPPPPP THAT FUCKING HAPPENED LOL
> 
> Just so that we're clear -- it's been 2 years and a few months since Tenzou's been gone. It's fall now, so we're approaching year 3 once it crosses Jan 10 again.


	8. viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

He remembers the first time he sees _him_. The sun shone behind him like a halo, glittering gold under the cool shadow his body casts over his own broken and bleeding body. He looked patient, bent over like that, hands on his knees, shoulders shrugged with the posture, head tilted to the side as he patiently waits.

He remembers blinking up at this stranger, trying to clear the fog from behind his eyes, trying to decipher the features of this person when he’s still blinded by the glittering brightness of the sun behind him.

 _Stand, Tenzou_ , he says, still smiling down at him the way he always does, his long, dark brown hair down, teeth peeking out from between soft lips, and with it the dotting dimples on either side of his cheeks. There’s a pale scar, cutting across his face -- quite distinct, hard to miss, very pale compared to his rich, milky-tea complexion. The sleeve of his yukata flutters gently, a dark navy color, a brush of patterned aqua on the sleeves and hem, and on his waist, is a flash of the dark red knotted obi. 

(Tenzou. He calls him Tenzou. It must be his name.)

Tenzou doesn’t know who he is. 

This beautiful stranger who comes to him before he wakes, seconds before he tips into the conscious world, always with his hand extended.

It’s always the same dream, everyday, since that day Tenzou had woken up by the river bank muddy, broken, bleeding. 

The moment he takes this beautiful man’s hand, the stranger’s hand is strong around Tenzou’s fingers, steady when Tenzou’s own isn’t at all, warm and so, _so_ real, and just before Tenzou is fully upright, he would whisper, _fight strong_.

*

He always wakes with a sharp up-right jerk alone, a gasp that would have been loud smothered somewhere in his throat. His hand empty but tingling with a warmth he knows is all in his head. A warmth that isn’t real.

But the words continue to echo in his ears throughout the day.

Fight strong.

So Tenzou tries.

  
*

Tenzou remembers standing in the middle of what looked like nowhere, right by a river bank. He remembers picking up a fallen branch, using it as a walking stick as everything in him tells him to stay out of the light, to hide himself, leaving mud, blood and a trail of what’s left of his strength behind him. The world around him is stained red, as the wound somewhere on his scalp continues to bleed. Or maybe it’s retinal damage. It’s hard to be sure about these things.

Tenzou remembers walking for what feels like days, each step agonized. It had gotten to a point where the stench on his wounds had started to churn his stomach, rot and infection filling his nostrils, nauseating in its pungent odor. He remembers doubling over, as he vomits water, mud, and gods, he doesn’t even know what’s in his stomach, only to fall face first into his own filth because his legs couldn’t take his weight anymore.

He remembers lying there, as some sort of feverish heat starts to rise to the surface of his skin, desperation making him want to move forward. To stand again when he physically can’t. 

To go home.

Except he didn’t know where home was.

*

He remembers waking up on a small cot, the smell of herbs thick in the air, the sound of rain beating down the clay roof tiles above his head. He remembers staring at the old wooden ceiling panels, alone in the dark, an oil lamp burning in the corner and a kid, no older than seven, maybe, looking at him with wide eyes. Ready to bolt, ready to scream, every bit of that small, narrow built coiled in tension.

Tenzou remembers trying to sit up, remembers trying to ask where the hell is he, only to have his head suddenly throb with a pulsating pain that leaves him delirious, as white hot flashes suddenly appear before his eyes and he ends up curling to his side and passing out.  
  
*

He remembers dreaming of him. That beautiful man.

Tenzou would turn his head to the side and find him sitting there, staring at the wall, knees to his chest and his cheek pillowed on the folded arms over his knees, a smile tucked under the folds of dark burgundy and gold.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. Mostly, he smiles at him, sometimes he hums a song that Tenzou swears he’s heard somewhere. Tenzou would watch him and he would watch Tenzou, and when Tenzou’s eyes start to droop, he would sigh softly.

Tenzou swears he feels fingers gently card through his hair. 

But that may have been just a result of the fever. He isn’t sure.

(He isn’t sure about a lot of things anymore.)  
  


*

He learns a good week later, after mostly sleeping through the worst of his injury and fever, that the Himura-farm-boys found him by the river. That the brothers had dragged him up and on their mule and brought him here. Here, apparently, is a small farm owned by an old couple with some medical knowledge one would expect of civilians. They’re patient, quiet, hands surprisingly steady despite the sun spots and the wrinkled lines that sit on top of wiry hands and yellowed nails. They’re strong, the couple that is. 

It’s because we work the land, the old man says raspily, his syllables unsteady unlike his hand, when Tenzou praises him for his skill in restoring the stitches Tenzou had accidentally torn them when he sat up too fast after dreaming that he’s fallingfallingfalling. 

(He jolts when he hits something hard, shuddering with a breath he suddenly can’t take when echoes of bone shattering reaches his ears.)

The old man later introduces himself as Jun and his wife as Chiyo. 

They’re harmless. Nice, even.

Tenzou isn’t quite sure why he deems them as harmless, why he looks around the small home and sees nothing blocking the exits, senses no energy interference and nothing honestly stopping him from leaving. He’s not quite sure _why_ he’s looking for these things either. Why he concludes - let alone how - that he isn’t a prisoner in this farm.

They ask him what his name is. And Tenzou looks at them as everything in his body seizes, an internal force rising up and sealing his lips shut, telling him to be quiet, to not disclose his identity, that the knowledge of who he is, what he is, who he serves belongs to no one but himself. The surge of that strong will fuels an unrest that leads to a bit of a panic, Tenzou’s heart drumming under his ribs, his breathing coming out a little shaky as he tries to understand why is he protecting himself from a harmless couple who, if anything, has nursed him back to health? The heinous healing, jagged scar on his leg, side, chest and head looks lethal. He’s not even sure how he’s even alive.

That if anything, he owed the couple and the Himura-brothers his life.

Tenzou doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to - he does. He owes them that much respect for saving his life.

But his lips remains tightly sealed, expression probably betraying his internal turmoil that makes Chiyo chuckle amusedly and pat him on the hand as she carefully sets up the wooden bed tray over Tenzou’s lap. She serves him a cup of herbal tea and a steaming bowl of okayu.

“Don’t worry, Shinobi-san,” she says, kind, patient, a little charming even. “We understand.”

Tenzou blinks at the tray of food in front of him.

Shinobi. 

He’s a shinobi.

*

It suddenly makes a lot of sense. How Tenzou can read the time just by looking at the sun and moon’s position in the sky. How he can gauge his approximate location on the map when the night sky appeared clear one night, the north star visible like a beacon in the universe. It suddenly makes sense why Tenzou can shut out the rest of the world, focusing only on the sound of movement all around him, how he can listen and sense the flow of chakra of all things around him.

It makes sense that he can calculate distances between his cot and window with accuracy. How the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of escape is the easiest and most open route is the window to his right and if that is blocked by an enemy, then the panels to his left, which would open up to the living room next door, obscured by old sliding doors, does not require much force to give. 

It is the safest wall to knock down without compromising the foundation of the house and reducing what little Jun and Chiyo have left to themselves to ruin.

And once he’s past that wall, it will open up to a farm, rows and rows of cabbages, turnips, potatoes and carrots, to rich earth and a well exactly one hundred meters and forty five degrees to his right. 

It suddenly makes a lot of sense why Tenzou thinks he’s got a fighting chance once he’s out of the small, modest home.

He’s a shinobi. 

And his affinity, if his line of thought is anything to go by, is earth and water. 

  
*

They return to him what remains of the clothes he had on his back the day they found him. The boots are fairly intact. The pants, not as much. There are pieces of fabric that Jun apologizes for cutting to get it off him. They were, apparently, what had remained of his singlet and his gloves.

There is no forehead protector. 

Tenzou gets two kunais and three shurikens, all of them handed to him wrapped in a cloth by the eldest Himura-boy, Riku as his younger brother, Sora, watched with wide eyed curiosity.

The Himura-boys found them by the river days before they found you, Jun says, as he sits with Tenzou and his first real breakfast some two weeks later now that Tenzou is able to wake up and not feel like his head is about to implode from within. They’re generous with their rice, soup and fish portions. Tenzou feels a little shame burn through him because the state of their home shows that they probably don’t have much to begin with.

“Why are you helping me? You’re not obligated to. You may attract trouble,” Tenzou says, once he finishes his breakfast and drinks the bitter, herbal tea that he recognizes to be ginger and green tea -- traditional natural remedies suited to combat infection.

The thought makes Tenzou go still, as he directs his gaze at the small, melancholic smile that tugs at the man’s face, making him look tired, so very frail and too old all of a sudden. 

“You remind us of our son,” Jun says, calm, resigned. “We lost him when he was very young. But I imagine if he had been around long enough to grow up, he’d look like you.”

Sentiments.

They saved him because of their sentiments.

Tenzou isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. 

*

They tell him he’s a fast healer. That he is strong. That the kind of injuries he had been found with would have definitely killed a man, shinobi or not.

It takes three weeks for Tenzou to be able to remain steady on his feet with the help of a wooden cane. It takes another two weeks after that for him to walk longer distances on his own without Riku or Sora acting like his personal aide. By week five, Tenzou no longer needed the cane and can walk to the market on his own just fine.

Tenzou helps around when he can with the farm chores. Chiyo and Jun tells him not to strain himself but the physical movement, however measured and small, helps ease the tension in Tenzou’s muscles. It helps him stretch and discover a wider range of movement, along with the power and strength Tenzou truly possesses. He is able, without breaking a sweat and aggravating his wound, to lift a sack of vegetables easily with one arm -- the Himura-boys had been impressed. 

“What’s the heaviest thing you’ve carried?” Sora asks. 

“I am not sure,” Tenzou murmurs, as he secures the sack of potatoes onto the mule. 

“Is it because it’s a secret or you just can’t remember? Chiyo-granny says she thinks you can’t remember so…” Riku shrugs.

Tenzou looks at the potato sack weave that will be delivered to the market. A part of him thinks it won’t even fetch much. Not for their size, anyway. It’s the soil. It’s a little too acidic and it’s affecting the growth of the couples’ vegetables. It isn’t something that can’t be fixed though. 

Tenzou blinks at his own thoughts, shaking it away and clearing his throat.

“I’m pretty sure I can carry the both of you easily,” Tenzou counters, distracting the two kids with a response that as he predicts, turns to a challenge.

He carries both boys on his shoulders to prove a point, the mule's reigns wrapped securely around his hand as they make their way towards the market. 

*

Tenzou continues to dream of that beautiful man, every night, without fail. 

He wakes up to his smile, just as dawn paints the sky, the broadness of it so breathtaking that sometimes, Tenzou wishes he didn’t have to wake up at all. Tenzou still cannot figure out what his name is or where he’s from. All he knows is that the man of his dreams makes him feel safe, at home, and rooted. The man in his dreams, whether he is a memory of someone who has passed or someone who is out there is where Tenzou should be.

But how do you find someone you don’t even know?

  
*

Sometimes there are headaches. Long, throbbing ones that doesn't leave Tenzou for hours.

When they come, they cripple him, leaving him lying on his cot with a dark cloth over his eyes, as he rides out the rest of the migraine until he eventually falls asleep. 

His dreams are turbulent after those headaches, images of the dark, screams, and people begging for their lives. A swirl of garbled noise in inky black.

But they always end with that beautiful stranger coming to him, offering a helping hand, the cutest dimples dotting his cheeks.  
  


*

One night, during dinner, Jun and Chiyo tells him how pleased they are about his recovery. They look relieved, maybe even a little proud that they’ve managed to save his life when the wounds, now merely a bright red keloid scar around his leg, side and chest, had looked vicious when the Himura-farm-boys had found him. 

“You must be excited to go home,” Chiyo says, some encouragement in her tone. It doesn’t come off as someone wanting a stranger out of their home. It just sounds genuinely happy. “A young man like you must have loved ones waiting for him, hmmm?”

“We don’t have much, but I think we can spare a few ryos to get you a caravan ride half-way, ne, Chiyo?” Jun offers, as a thoughtful and calculating look crosses his face. 

Tenzou stares at the bowl of miso soup and swallows, the flash of that beautiful man’s smile coming to his mind. Tenzou doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know where home is. The weapons, pieces of fabric and the pair boots he owns tells him nothing about where he’s from. He’s not even sure if the man in his dreams is even alive to go back to. Because he must mean something if Tenzou is drawn to him like a moth to a flame in his dreams. He must be of value if Tenzou does his best to prolong the said dream, just so that he doesn’t feel so incredibly alone waking up to a world he doesn’t recognize and on most days, understand.

“I’m not sure,” Tenzou says, honest, a little vulnerable in his current state of not knowing what to do or where to go. There are days where his leg still hurts, but he thinks that he can manage to travel, so long as he takes enough breaks in between. “But I -- I’ll leave in the morning. I don’t want to impose on your generosity anymore.”

Chiyo and Jun exchange worried looks. “Shinobi-san, if you are not confident to make the journey, you can stay. You’ve been so helpful with the land and -- well, we don’t want to keep you from your loved ones, is all.”

“Stay as long as you need. Take the time to remember,” Jun offers, a look of understanding softening what must have been a very handsome face in his youth. 

Tenzou should have known better than to try to fool the old couple.

After all, no shinobi in their right mind would try to stay longer than necessary in a small, humble farm. 

And if they were traitors to their own village, the farm owners would have been nothing but dead bodies by now.

  
*

Tenzou promises to repay his debt by working the land. There isn’t much to work with but giving the old couple time to rest a little more and attend to small hobbies like knitting for the upcoming winter and reading books and playing mahjong with the neighbors in the afternoon seems to be fair. 

Tenzou finds peace in working with the earth. It's relaxing.

After all, his memories ought to return soon enough, right? 

  
*

The thing is, Tenzou is hyper-aware that he’s forgetting things. 

He’s aware when there is something close yet hidden. He is aware exactly when he is unable to quite fathom whatever that something is. It’s a little like following a breadcrumb trail and it suddenly vanishes, leaving him in the middle of a memory that’s a little ghost-like, sometimes faded around the edges, lingering but not quite present. Not quite solid. It gives Tenzou some sort of idea that there’s something missing in the familiarity.

Like the fresh scent of a newly peeled ripe, sweet orange.

The soft sound of tea being poured, releasing the gentle aroma of freshly steeped tea leaves.

Sometimes, it is the rushing noise of the children running across the dirt path, laughing, playing games.

Sometimes it is the sight of ink blotting on paper. Or the feel of an old book’s pages between his finger tips.

Three months pass without so much of a solid memory truly forming. Winter lingers in the horizon when it brings with it a cold wind from the North, blowing outwards to the Southern Sea, where the waves that crashes on the docks of the port town is white-tipped, its depths dark like the skies that are almost always overcast.

Tenzou has started looking out towards the sea, listening to the distant sound of the waves beating on the pier, as his lungs filling with the smell of salt and the winter winds.

This too, reminds him of something.

By the time winter comes, Tenzou realizes that the memories of his home or that beautiful man isn’t going to come on its own.

The decision to go look for something he doesn’t know forms.

On the coldest night of winter, one quiet evening as he sits with Chiyo and Jun watching an old television show in the warmth of the living room, he tells them that he’s going to try to look for his home. That it’s been two whole months and nothing has come yet. That he promises to stay until spring, help them work the land a little more in what he hopes will yield better crops come summer.

Chiyo and Jun look grateful and wishes him only the best of luck in finding his home.

  
*

A week before spring, Tenzou accidentally channels enough chakra to make trees sprout from the ground when one of the Himura boys almost falls from the farm house’s rooftop in the middle of unblocking the drainage pipes.

The trees break Sora’s fall, leaving him dangling in vines just two feet above the ground, uninjured if not a little shocked.

Tenzou had been on the other end of the field when he had seen Sora’s footing slip.

Instincts had him zipping halfway across in a second and plunging his hands into the soil when he realizes that he’s too far, that he will be a second too late by the time he reaches the farm house. Sora would have fallen by the time, broken bones and all.

Instincts had him crouching the moment the calculated thought forms, his hands coming together in a seal before burying itself into the cold ground.

What results is the slightly bent, a little grotesque looking tree, bent over the roof of house, branches fanned out like fingers trying to catch Sora’s falling body.

Sora’s loud scream had the old couple rushing outside to see what’s going on, rickety old wooden sliding doors being thrown open with a sharp bang only for all of them to stare in shock at the presence of the tree that had not been there seconds ago.

Tenzou’s chest starts to heave, struggling with breath he can’t quite fully take as he stares at his hands with confusion, cold sweat beading on his temples and neck as his surroundings suddenly drowns, a loud roar that sounds like rushing waterfalls fills his ears. He clenches his fist and swallows, forcing himself to push down the overwhelming sensation that is suffocating his lungs, squeezing them as he hears the rush of liquid all around him, flashes of his dream appearing, the one where he’s falling, falling, falling, the night sky above him looking further and further away until he slams down into something cold, everything in him shattering, sinking into darkness and wooden debris circling all around him in the torrential pull of water.

Except this time, there are flashes of glass, something eerily green, and with it the roiling feeling of nausea, almost chemical like.

And in the midst of it all, the man in his dreams is there, standing by the sea, turning around to face him, looking at him from beyond the glass, beyond the greenish fluid, his lips mouthing the words:

_Fight strong._

“You can grow things!” Riku crows loudly, voice piercing through the loud flashes as Tenzou snaps back to reality with a sharp inhale and his attention on alert. He is looking up at Riku, who is looking between Tenzou and his dangling brother with a look of shock, excitement and awe on his face.

They’re all looking at him like he’s an oddity. A creature that doesn’t belong. 

Because the tree that caught Sora isn’t the only new thing in the farm.

The entire farm is surrounded by sprouts of flowers - hibiscus, chamomile, an entire stretch of lavender reaching almost the main road, along smatterings of ylang-ylang, red and blue salvias, daisies.

(Rare beauty, patience, devotion, never ending love, forever mine, thinking of you and hope.)

The neat rows of potatoes and cabbages are upended with the sudden sprout of several orange trees, blossoming despite the season, along with strawberry plants, two lemon trees on either end of the farm and a towering peach tree a little to unnaturally big to not draw attention from the neighboring farms.

Tenzou stares at all this with eyes as wide as saucers, his hands shaking as if suddenly riddled with a crippling disease.

He didn’t mean to damage the farm.

He didn’t mean to draw attention to himself like this.

He didn’t mean to.

Everything in him tells him to run, to get away from the four pairs of eyes looking at him, judging him, knowing what he is capable of, his roots, what his hands were trained and meant to do. A clear route of escape maps itself in his mind, distances to the nearest town and where to hide from prying eyes and trackers factored in. He should stay close to the river, throw off the scent of potential trackers. He should move quick, now, leave his weapons behind. He can pick up something on the way. His hands are enough. The mokuton is enough.

The thought brings everything in Tenzou’s mind to a grinding halt, as he blinks at the sight of his hands that suddenly stops in its quake.

Tenzou looks up from his hand and finds Riku plucking strawberries from the ground, stuffing one after the other into his mouth and crowing with so much excitement about how delicious and sweet it is, while Chiyo and Jun fuss with trying to untangle and help Sora down from the tree vines. 

Mokuton.

That’s what this is called.

*

Tenzou spends the rest of the day correcting the farm.

It takes a few interesting tries that results in more chaos than not. Tenzou ends up turning the farm into a sink hole, then a swamp before he figures out the chakra balance required. By late afternoon, he’s got the farm looking the way it should, with a few more vegetables growing that would spare the couple from trading in some of their own with the neighbors. 

Tenzou is relieved that there is no evidence of his pathetic blunder, exhaustion weighing his body down from the energy expenditure that was further aggravated by desperation and panic.

“I guess one can say that this experience for you is a little like riding a bicycle again, hmm?” Jun says, clapping him in the shoulder as he hands Tenzou a cup of warm, black tea as Sora and Riku continue to stuff their faces with orange slices, strawberries and engaging in a small argument about what to do with their giant watermelon while sitting on small stools in the front lawn. It is so comically large that Sora has named it barrel-melon.

“I guess so…” Tenzou murmurs, taking a sip of the tea, the rich, bitter-sweet flavor coating his tongue and there, in that very moment, he knows that he’s missing something. 

Tenzou gets offered an orange by Chiyo, as she tells him to eat it before it disappears into the bottomless pits of the boys’ stomachs.

Tenzou takes a bite of the sweet, tangy fruit, washing the sweetness down with the tea when that man’s face flashes in his mind again.

This time, he’s sitting on a floor cushion, his hair down, dressed in wash worn cotton tank top, twiddling a red pen between his fingers as he reads what looks like a stack of papers before him, attention not breaking at all as he takes a sip from a mug, probably tea, before he pops a piece of orange into his mouth. The man looks up, as if Tenzou is seated across from him, eyebrows raising in silent question before he smiles, chin propping on a palm, warm, bright, inviting, teeth peeking out from between orange-sweetened lips and dimples dotting his cheeks. 

The image - or perhaps the memory - makes Tenzou think of warm, bright summers.

It triggers a feeling of yearning. Of home.

Tenzou’s mouth is dry as he stares at the mug, realizing that his only clue in finding out who he is, is his mokuton ability and that beautiful man with a scar cutting across the bridge of his nose.

  
*  
  
Tenzou departs from the farm leaving behind a teary-eyed old lady and frowning faces from two young boys who didn’t want him to go.

Tenzou begins his journey west, going through Jungle, Wind and Noodles before he starts moving north, evading Wind’s desert stretches and moving towards Rock, Rain, Earth and Grass. 

The journey is long, arduous on some days, sometimes put on hold when Tenzou's headaches gets so bad that he has to set up camp somewhere safe, secluded and shaded when he can, riding out the migraine until his head isn't throbbing like it's about to explode. It's something Tenzou has come to accept. It's a part of him now. Probably has something to do with the thin healed scar cutting down from his scalp to his temple.

He goes through town, after town, searching thoroughly until he somehow ends up in Waterfalls and lingering around the borders of Sound.

He does not find the stranger that continues to be a calming presence in his dreams.

Then again, the search had been futile from the beginning.

Because how exactly is Tenzou supposed to find a man he doesn’t quite remember, anyway?

*

By the end of summer, Tenzou has come full circle in his journey, ticking off Hot Water, Frost and the small island of Whirlpool. He manages to search through half the land of fire before he reaches the small island of Waves. 

Standing on the Great Naruto Bridge with the summer humidity sticking to his clothes and back, as he empties a tall bottle of ice-cold fruit juice, the feeling of missing something is suddenly very, very strong. 

So strong that Tenzou spends hours on that bridge just willing his mind to come up with something. Anything, damnit.

In the end, he ends up walking away with nothing more than a feeling.

It’s been the same for the past seven months, after all. 

There’s no reason it’d change now.

*

It is early September by the time Tenzou returns to the small Port Town of River. He arrives at the farm empty handed, directionless, unsure of where else to go. He had not been sure if he would be welcomed again.

He is proven wrong when Chiyo and Jun offers him to stay, saying that the small room at the back remains his for however long he needs it.

They don’t ask him if he’s found his answers because it’s obvious by Tenzou’s return that he hasn’t. Instead, they tell him that the farm has yielded delicious eggplants, lemons, radishes and turnips that summer. That their potatoes and carrots are a lot larger than what it used to be and that they’ve been offered a sack rice for five sacks of potatoes this year. Something, Tenzou has come to understand, is plenty for the couple.

Tenzou tells himself that at least he’s able to help them.

That his existence, however displaced, isn’t obsolete yet.

  
*

Tenzou tells himself it's better to be here than nowhere else.

He tells himself the choice he's made to return to Jun and Chiyo may not be borne out of debt this time, but of sentiments.

Maybe a part of him wants to be the son they lost, because being a part of something is better than being a part of nothing.

That being looked at like he's sort of important, this his existence has some value, that he can serve the old couple to some degree, help them in return for saving his life and allowing him the privilege of having some sort of direction, some sort of task, something to do when he wakes up and still recognizes nothing of himself or his past is a blessing.

Which is why, this time, Tenzou tells them his name. Or what he thinks his name is. That he has dreams sometimes, of a man so beautiful who calls him Tenzou.

Serving Jun and Chiyo doesn't dull the yearning that is as wide as a ravine in Tenzou's chest. It doesn't dull the loss of hope after concluding months of searching through towns for any clues.

But what he has now, however small, is something; a small candle in the dark of Tenzou's memories that sometimes are triggered by the smallest thing, but not fully forming still.

A small thing is something Tenzou learns to appreciate.

Because a small thing is truly better than nothing.

*

Tenzou familiarizes himself with the town that early September night, walking through the markets and picking up fruits on the way. He spots a merchant selling plums, large, and dark red, something deep in his chest compelling him to try it, because they’re the best this time of the year.

The voice is clear in the back of his head, soft and bemused. Punctuated by a dimpled smile.

Tenzou holds out two fingers to the merchant, taking two plums in return for loose change, before he turns and walks away, teeth sinking into the fruit, navigating through the busy throng of the night market.

The voice is right.

The plums are delicious this time of year.

  
*

With nothing to do, Tenzou works the land the best he can. At least until he can figure out more clues and begin a second search.

Until one day, several months into his return, he hears that bandits had robbed the Himura farm. And soon enough, some months later, they try to rob Jun and Chiyo too.

Tenzou hadn’t been there to help the Himuras, but he’ll be damned if he lets them touch the old couple.

Tenzou encounters his first fight with a fellow shinobi that has his senses strung and piqued as he takes them down one by one, burying them into the depths of the earth and leaving behind nothing but a stretch of wild grass that would, if anything, act as some sort of barrier between the main road and the farm.

The fight is quick, leaving Tenzou flushed from the adrenaline and his fingers jittery from the maddening rush he didn’t know his body is capable of feeling. He stumbles back into the farmhouse drenched in sweat, breathing heavily as he tells the couple that they’re fine, they’re not coming back.

*

But they do come back again. Ego and revenge are always good incentives to try to take down that shinobi in that farm who decimated their men.

Tenzou does it again. And again. Burying them deep into the land, keeping Jun, Chiyo and the Himura-farm safe.

Damn them for thinking they can harm these good people.

*

One morning, Riku and Sora shows up with their mule and a new dog in tow. It’s quite large, short haired with dark droopy ears, a white snout and friendly eyes. It wags its tail when Tenzou cocks an eyebrow at it, looking up at him attentively, tongue lolling out, almost begging for attention or affection, some sort of acknowledgement. 

The feeling of forgetting something comes again, mild, almost a whisper as Tenzou stares down at the dog. It makes him wonder if the stranger in his dreams had a dog, somewhere, somehow; it’s the only reason Tenzou thinks he’s reacting this way at the sight of this familiar, but not familiar dog.

Tenzou reaches out and allows the dog to sniff his palm, only to get a lick and a cheerful, if not excited set of loud barks in return. He pats the dog’s head a few times and this earns him jumps, the dog circling around his legs and paws coming up to his hip. Tenzou can only huff a sound of amusement, patting the dog down as he shakes his head.

“Another one of your strays, Sora?” Tenzou asks, as he starts to load the mule with the sacks of potatoes, cabbages and the bushels of oranges that is the result of Tenzou planting two orange trees in the backyard of the farm.

“We found him wandering in the street! He looked hungry and he isn’t leaving, so, yeah I guess!” Sora says, excited, his face scrunched up in a wide, toothy grin that never ceases to make Tenzou thinks, yet again, how he's forgetting something. 

Tenzou hums, thinking nothing more of the dog’s presence as they make their way towards the market, with him following the mule and the dog walking beside his feet, staring up at him the entire time.

  
*

That afternoon, for the first time since he had woken up, Tenzou gets the feeling he is being watched.

Something at the back of his mind tingles, making the small hairs at the back of his neck stand. He sees nothing out of ordinary in the market, spots no suspicious characters loitering about. It’s been several weeks since an attempt by the bandits had been made on either farms.

It’s been quiet.

It still is.

Something about that leaves Tenzou unsettled. The only odd presence is the dog beside him, still looking at him, barking at the other dogs in the market every now and then.

Something in Tenzou’s gut tells him not to ignore the feeling.

They are folding up their sacks having sold all of their goods when a late customer approaches them. She is small, petite, long brown hair and light colored eyes -- hypnotizing crystal blue, as still as a lake in winter -- a jagged scar wrapping around her neck, her travel cloak dusty around the bottom hem, feet encased in travel boots. 

Something about the boots is familiar. Too familiar.

It sets off something at the back of Tenzou’s mind, a warning bell, a whisper to be alert, to pay closer attention, to remain still and not betray his ability to defend the boys if need be. That this might be someone from that string of bandits and shinobi that keeps picking on innocents for no other reason than ego. 

And while this woman doesn’t wear a symbol of any village, the shinobis that Tenzou had buried didn’t either. There’s no reason to underestimate her.

After all, those are shinobi boots.

Tenzou knows because he’s seen the type of leather that is used, knows how the soles are sturdier than those of civilians'. He knows because his own boots still remain intact, having served him well on his long journey of aimless searching.  
  
Tenzou knows he is staring for too long when Sora’s dog barks again. He looks up and finds the stranger staring at him, expression neutral. Tenzou is reminded of a porcelain doll, as he tilts his head in question when she takes too long to voice a question. 

“Do you still have any of the oranges left?” She asks, soft spoken, gentle. 

Tenzou rubs the back of his head and sighs. “Sorry. We’re out. Try again tomorrow?”

She nods, sucking in a soft breath before dipping her head in a silent farewell and walking away.

Tenzou watches her leave, hopes to the heavens that he won’t have to fight anyone off the farm tonight. There's a dull throb starting to build at the back of his head, something that Tenzou knows is going to evolve to full on headache later on.

He really isn’t in any mood to engage in a fight.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is Kakashi's summon. Guruko to be specific. And Guruko barking at other dogs = barking at the other summons.
> 
> And yes, that Chiharu. Tenzou's Hyuuga teammate. Aka Sparrow. With Byakugan disguised. Explanation next chapter.
> 
> One chapter. Of Tenzou being alive. And well as you can see. And yeah. Some brief throwbacks to scenes/images/memories from Beneath The Sun. If you recognize some of it, then HORAY ILU :D
> 
> Yay? Nay?


	9. ix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Kakashi doesn’t realise how deep his anxiety runs until Sparrow returns to confirm what his summons had already confirmed two days ago. 

Tenzou _is_ alive.

He just doesn’t remember them.

He fails to recognize Kakashi’s summon, someone Tenzou should have been familiar with given how many times he’s worked with Kakashi and his summons over the years. He should have recognized Sparrow, the disguise she favors when walking through a civilian town, because he’s walked beside her in that very disguise for years. He should have come home a long time ago, should have remembered something by now if the new cut on his temple had been a result of a head injury.

There’s a million should haves swirling in Kakashi’s mind, spinning into an uncontrollable tornado of possibilities and decisions he will have to make to address the one possibility that Kakashi doesn’t want to entertain at all.

That it is all just a front.

That Tenzou knows who he is but simply chooses to not return to Konoha.

Perhaps he favors the quiet life. Perhaps he’s tired of all the bloodshed, unable to quite move on with the guilt of being the source of power that had fueled his clones during the war. And if that was the case, then Tenzou has forsaken Konoha. Tenzou is, by all definition of Konoha’s laws, a traitor.

And traitors do not deserve to live under the shade of Konoha’s trees.

Or so they say.

Kakashi has been staring at the report before him for a good hour now, not exactly reading its contents, but instead, fighting every muscle in his body that is too tightly strung, ready to spring into action and cross the distance between Konoha and River and if need be, grab the Tenzou by his fucking ear, drag him home kicking and screaming and shake some sense in to him. Ask him, why did you not come home? What kept you from coming back home when everything that you hold dear is here? When this is where you belong, where you’ve always belonged? When you know you are loved, wanted, needed? And if you loved Iruka at all, if you cared about him at all, if what you felt for him all these years is true, you would have never abandoned him like this. You would have never reduced him to nothing more than a shell of servitude. You would have never left him behind like this.

(I certainly wouldn’t.)

Kakashi’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Iruka sort an impossible amount of paper into five separate piles, his eyebrows knitted in concentration, a pencil balanced behind an ear as he chews his lower lip in what Kakashi knows is his calculating-numbers face. That alone is enough of a hint for Kakashi to conclude that Iruka is sorting through the budget reports by receipt of date and department again, because despite how many times Iruka has informed the runners to not just dump loose and unlabeled documents on his desk, they still continue to do so, leaving Iruka to spend a good portion of his morning figuring things out when he really didn’t have to. Iruka tugs the pencil from behind his ear, scribbles what Kakashi knows will be a note that either says _urgent_ or _return_ at the top right corner of the document, before placing the pencil back on its perch on his ear. 

Kakashi’s body _screams_ then, leather squeaking as he balls his hand into a fist, his jaw grinding as he rips his gaze away from Iruka, who is too fucking devoted for his own fucking good. 

Goddamnit, Tenzou, Kakashi thinks, as he pushes himself off his chair and exits the office with Iruka not even sparing him a second look.

Kakashi needs to know why. 

Because Tenzou knows Konoha’s laws like the back of his hand. Tenzou knows that should he shift his loyalties, that running around with the Shodaime’s DNA in his blood up for the taking for anyone who _dares_ , is something Konoha cannot -- _will not_ \-- afford.

Tenzou knows, more than anybody, that his betrayal to Konoha is a death sentence.

Kakashi doesn’t want to think of what it’ll mean to put a fistful of lightning into Tenzou’s chest, to turn his body to ash and make sure that not a part of him exists for anyone out there to salvage and use for their own gain. Kakashi doesn’t want to think how he’ll come back home, carrying a secret so cruel in his chest and still be able to look at Iruka’s face, to still be able close his eyes and press his mouth against lips that are soft, lips that sigh, lips that he presses a hand over because if he hears his own name spill from that mouth, Kakashi knows that stepping away will be one, if not the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do for himself.

Kakashi needs to know why.

*

He makes temporary arrangements to have Naruto sit in office with Shikamaru guiding him through the daily proceedings of what goes on in office. Kakashi dresses the whole arrangement like it’s some sort of training in preparation for Naruto’s ascension as the Nanadaime. He leaves Iruka with instructions to teach Naruto the ropes, maybe even walk him through the administration’s standard operating procedure. 

He tells Iruka that he can tap into his knowledge of designing a written exam for Naruto to do, to see what he has absorbed during Kakashi’s absence. 

“Leave it to me,” Iruka says, a smile on his face that seems like the realest thing Kakashi has seen on his face for a long time. 

It takes a lot of coordinating with the torture and interrogation unit, a lot of discussion with Tsunade and his council. 

It boils down to one thing.

If there is one person in the village second to maybe Naruto, that can stand against Tenzou at his peak performance with Mokuton and all those years of training and power under his belt, it’s none other than Kakashi. 

Kakashi, after all, knows Tenzou the longest and best.

*

Kakashi decides to appoint Tenzou’s old team as his security detail. When he explains the mission parameters, he watches the color drain from their faces for a brief moment before it is schooled to a mask of indifference. 

They need to prepare for the worst, after all.

At best, they’ll be bringing Tenzou home willingly and maybe, investigating the cause of his memory loss -- whether it’s falsified or genuine.

At the worst, they’ll end up harboring a secret for the rest of their lives.

*

They run for days and reach the Port Town of River a little before sunset within three days. They set up a parameter and trap that can easily be triggered if required around the farm house Tenzou is currently staying at as planned before they make their way to the market to give Tenzou another opportunity to come clean.

*

True to Sparrow and Kakashi’s summons’ reports, Tenzou is in the market, trading oranges and potatoes with two children keeping watch of mule and the goods displayed on a small foldable wooden table. He sits there, on a stool, reading a folded newspaper, dressed down in navy jinbei, a bit of a stubble on his chin and his hair a little longer, a little thicker from its usual neat, tapered cut. He’s a little leaner in built, despite his broadness, visible signs of lack of rigorous training and upkeep ANBU is known for.

Kakashi watches him from his perch on the roof, masked in genjutsu, chakra tightly suppressed, already disguised as Sukea just in case he had to move quickly.

He watches as Stag goes in first in his civilian disguise, approaching Tenzou’s small table in a form that Tenzou should recognize, but doesn’t. He watches as Stag makes small talk with the kids, buys himself two oranges and waves goodbye.

A little before the sky goes completely dark, Raccoon approaches Tenzou in his disguise and gets no flicker of recognition. Tenzou's expression doesn’t shift, it doesn’t falter, as he answers and points down the road in response to Raccoon’s question for directions.

Kakashi is meant to simply make an appearance, make eye contact. He isn’t meant to say anything when his turn comes. 

Instead, Kakashi ends up standing there before Tenzou’s empty table, ignoring how Tenzou's two younger companions are packing up everything to head home with their mule, unable to utter a single word as Tenzou stares at him with no recognition in his eyes at all. 

What happens instead, is this:

Tenzou’s eyebrows slope down to a slight frown, tension coiling under his skin as he turns and urges the children to wait for him in the square, where it is open and crowded, with a lot of eyes watching. It’s strategic, asking someone you don’t want to disappear to be watched by the public. The children obey, not even wondering why the request was made at all, like it’s not the first time Tenzou has asked them to do this.

The moment they are out of ear shot, Tenzou’s expression darkens to something dangerous, almost an outright threat. It’s all there in the expression of his mouth, when his eyes remain so eerily blank, a habit most, if not all ANBU has because it’s so easy to hide one’s mouth expression behind the mask, while their eyes remain as unreadable as the inky shadows. Tenzou’s lips are deceptively still, relaxed, at ease, even, if it hadn’t been for the very brief, very small shift in his jaw, how it had tugged the corners of his lips downwards, ever so slightly pressing to a thin line that betrays irritability, maybe even anger. Kakashi knows it’s irritability. Anger is something Tenzou doesn’t wear so casually. 

(Kakashi doesn’t think he’s even seen Tenzou truly _angry_.)

“I don’t want trouble,” Tenzou announces, his words cold, a complete monotone, no discrepancies in pitch.

He is definitely irritated, Kakashi thinks.

“Trouble?” Kakashi asks, tilting his head and slapping on the disarming expression Sukea tends to wear in public.

Tenzou doesn’t deem Kakashi’s counter question with a response, opting instead to dip his chin in a departing greeting and turning to leave without a second look back. Kakashi sticks to his cover, fumbles a little, throwing in apologies for not meaning to cause offense which looks like it falls on deaf ears.

Tenzou completely ignores him.

*

Night falls with a chilly breeze that sways inky black trees that burned as bright as a raging fire during the day. The Port Town of River is awash with the smell of salt, the surrounding farmlands reduced to hues of golds and reds. It’s colder than the temperatures in-land due to the Southern Sea. It tosses Kakashi’s heavy travel cloak in the wind like ship sails beating against a stormy sea, as he stands there under the shadows of an apple tree, beyond the farm gate, between him and the house that looks like a smile in the shadows from the illuminated windows.

He watches shadows flicker through the windows of the farm, guessing that its inhabitants are probably fussing with dinner.

Kakashi doesn’t know how long he stands there for, until the entire farmhouse go dark, the wind a little crisper.

Something shifts around him, like energy compressing and releasing, and the first thing Kakashi turns his attention to is the apple tree offering him cover from the night, and then the long line of wooden fence. Kakashi knows there’s a possibility both tree and fence can shift in an instant, turn to binding bonds or suddenly make the earth sink inwards. Kakashi is out of his element in this farmland even if he can channel Earth-chakra. Whereas Tenzou would be right at home, with the addition of the well being not more than ten meters beyond the wooden fence.

Kakashi knows Tenzou is _here_. 

Somewhere.

Kakashi has to forcibly relax his defensive instincts, sucking in a deep breath before he announces in the dark as he tugs the hood of his cloak off, revealing his silver hair, forehead protector and mask, keeping his hands visible:

“I just want to talk. Can we, Tenzou?”

Nothing moves, nothing shifts, as the wind blows across the stretch of grassland, rolling upwards through the slight incline of land before disappearing into the trees beyond. 

The shadows elongate and sure enough, Tenzou emerges from behind the tree, stepping into Kakashi’s field of vision, his expression as unreadable as it had been earlier that afternoon. Kakashi stands perfectly still as Tenzou studies him. He watches for anything that may even hint at recognition, anything at all.

There is nothing.

Tenzou remains silent.

And when Kakashi raises both his hands up in a placating gesture, reaches forward and tugs his mask down, he still gets nothing.

(Something about that twists at the softest parts of Kakashi. To be open like this, to show himself like this and still not be recognized.)

Anxiety starts pumping alongside the adrenaline in Kakashi’s veins, leaving him stomach cold, his tongue tasting horribly bitter as he fails to keep the disappointment from ringing in his tone.

“You don’t know me, do you?” Kakashi asks.

“Am I supposed to?” Tenzou counters.

Kakashi thought he had been prepared for disappointment.

He wasn’t.

Not one bit.

As everything in him spins to a slow halt, and he closes his eyes, the weight of the yawning sadness and regret balling his hands into tight fists as he swallows past the lump in his throat and shakes his head. Kakashi had hoped that by coming here himself, that maybe Tenzou would give him a hint that he’s being held against his will, something, _anything_ \-- that he'd see it's Kakashi who's come for him, that the years of trust between them would be enough of a sign that Kakashi has Tenzou's back, even when his tongue is held back for whatever reason. Tenzou is one of the strongest shinobi Kakashi knows, has gone through rounds of capture and torture several times and has come out of it eerily intact. It’s almost a little inhumane sometimes; if anything, that lack of humanity had been Tenzou’s saving grace throughout the years in ANBU.

This lack of trust, this total dismissal -- well, Kakashi isn’t sure why he had hoped to begin with. 

Reigning a ROOT agent back has always been difficult, with zero chance of success.

He should have known it would never be easy with Tenzou.

(Because entertaining the idea that Tenzou’s programming has kicked in is a pill easier to digest than to think that Tenzou would ever willingly turn his back on Konoha.)

“You’re really going to make me do this?” Kakashi asks, closing his eyes as his chest clenches inwards, like a fist has been punched through and all he can think is damnit, give me a sign, tell me something, show me something, anything, damnit Tenzou.

But Tenzou doesn’t.

Instead his hand shifts and that’s all Kakashi needs before he’s moving too.

In the dark, their weapons clash, the apple tree morphing to something grotesque, hunching downwards into the earth, the energy around Kakashi shifting as the fence starts to change shape. It’s slow, almost hilariously sluggish, nothing of what Kakashi remembers Tenzou being at his prime and peak performance.

It’s almost too easy, suppressing Tenzou, getting behind him, sweeping his feet from under him and watching him topple to the ground like he's no more than a clumsy genin, barely even catching himself - slow, so fucking slow - before Kakashi brings the side of his palm down against his neck. He watches as Tenzou’s eyes bulge wide open in shock, before they roll back into his skull and he lies there, crumpled on the ground, looking nothing like the shinobi he once was.

Kakashi slaps the seal on at the back of Tenzou's neck, rendering him a prisoner, sealing his chakra, as the rest of team circle their former captain’s body and prepare him for transport back to Konoha, leaving behind them a disturbed farm, and a heinous looking apple tree, bent, skewed, and looking nothing like its former glory.

*

They arrive in Konoha by nightfall, the cloak of darkness giving them additional cover as they drop Tenzou’s body over at Torture and Interrogation. Ibiki is waiting for them when they arrive, tasked with overseeing the entire process himself as Tenzou is secured and deposited in a questioning cell, his body strapped to a chair, rendered completely immobile, as sealing shackles encase his hands, his eyes covered with a blindfold.

Tsunade makes an appearance, the clack of heels punctuating the silence in the room as she stares at one of their oldest, most effective ANBU field agent, strapped and slumped pitifully on the chair like he’s no more than a common prisoner.

“Did he struggle at all?” Tsunade asks, as she shrugs off her haori, sighing heavily. 

He didn’t even stand a chance, Kakashi doesn’t say but shakes his head instead. “No recognition. Sluggish reaction.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s an injury and nothing more than that, hmm?” 

Tsunade waves Kakashi off as she takes her position behind Tenzou’s chair, presses her hands carefully on either side of Tenzou’s head as she channels chakra and engulfs the entire room in a warm, soothing, bright green glow.

*

Kakashi stands in front of the memorial, watching the dark turn to day, hoping like a helpless fool that everything Tenzou is going through is just because of an injury. That it’s nothing more than having a few screws rattled out of place, that it can be fixed with Tsunade’s knowledge and skill, maybe even a little rehabilitation, if necessary.

Because the truth is, Kakashi doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself if he has to make that hard decision.

If he has to sign off the order to put Tenzou out of commission.

He’s put enough friends in the ground already.

“Obito,” he murmurs, everything burning under his ribcage, pinching, _clenchingclenchingclenching_. “I can really use some of that optimism of yours right now...”

*

Kakashi doesn’t announce his arrival by making an appearance at his office. 

Instead, he remains within the enclosure of the Torture and Interrogation compound, watching as Tsunade work on Tenzou’s sedated form, sweat on her brow for days. At some point, she involves a team of specialized medics within the unit, Tenzou’s body stripped bare as seals are painted on him, the pulsing glow of green never once fading in its brilliance.

The longer it takes, the more hope fills Kakashi’s chest because he may not be versed with medical jutsu, but this can’t be a bad thing, right?

Right?

*

One day, Kakashi appears and finds Tenzou with his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling as Tsunade pushes chakra into him. 

It’s then that Tsunade ceases her channeling of chakra. It’s then that she slumps, exhausted, but not to the point that her appearance shifts and reveals her true form and age. Kakashi watches as Tenzou slumps back on the ground, limp and unconscious, eyes fluttering shut. 

Tsunade exits the room, saying that she’s done, as a swarm of Ibiki’s men swoops in, dressing Tenzou and strapping him down in shackles again. Kakashi watches all this as Tenzou is prepared for a Yamanaka to examine, to delve deep into his subconscious and check for any enforced seal, or programming, or any information that will help them in proving if Tenzou’s loyalties have truly shifted. 

Kakashi watches as a middle aged woman from the Yamanaka clan appears, taking her seat across from Tenzou, her hands sweeping through a series of seals before she goes completely still, glassy eyed.

“This may take a while Hokage-sama,” Ibiki says. “She’s not as quick and seasoned as Inoichi, but it’ll get done. Shall I ask for an extra chair?”

“No need,” Kakashi answers blithely, reaching up to adjust his hat. “Let me know when it’s done.”

“Of course, Hokage-sama.”

*

He finds Tsunade in the empty breakroom, nursing a cup of coffee and rubbing a temple. She looks up at him and sighs, shaking her head. 

“That bad?” Kakashi asks, taking the seat adjacent to Tsunade. 

“Either it was a bad fight, or some sort of nasty fall. If it wasn’t for my grandfather’s DNA, I don’t think he would have survived,” Tsunade says.

She then begins to explain how several parts of Tenzou’s bone structure, while fully healed, isn’t healed properly -- mostly around his left side, around the ribs that are bent a little inwards than normal and around his left leg. What’s more worrying are the clusters of tissues pressing into neural pathways in his brain. Tsunade explains its complexity, how several clusters can contribute memory loss, temporary or permanent, even she can’t tell until Tenzou is conscious. She tells him how she’s restored them, set them straight, so to speak. 

“I can’t imagine the headaches,” Tsunade concludes. “With that kind of injury that should have received immediate medical attention, it’d be painful when they flare. Possibly crippling.” 

“Was there no way to tell if the injuries are deliberate?”

“If the injury had been mere days old, maybe, but even then it’d be slim. There are hints of trauma. But I can’t say with confidence if it was deliberate or a result of battle at this stage. Fresh wounds are easier to study than healed ones, especially if you have grandfather’s healing factor. You’ll have better luck with whatever information Yamanaka can extract out of him. The best I can tell you is that if what you say is right, if he can still remember how to use mokuton, then there’s a chance he can be rehabilitated. It means he still remembers his shinobi motor skills and ability. That’s a good sign.”

Kakashi drops his gaze on the floor, sighing softly. 

He hopes that Yamanaka yields better results.

*

Kakashi returns to office out of necessity rather than anything else.

He is greeted by a slew of vigorously whispered complaints from Naruto, who he is glad sympathizes with him when it comes to the sheer volume of paperwork and bureaucracy. Kakashi sits there, chuckling bemusedly, thankful for some positive distraction as Naruto complains about the division he hates the most: the financial division.

A division Kakashi hates too.

Kakashi whispers that confession to Naruto, who gets all smug, proud, his chest puffing out.

“Kakashi-sensei, if I’m hating the same thing as you, then I think I’m doing quite well in this training! You didn’t even have to tell me!”

“Say that after you pass the test, dumbass,” Iruka says, slapping an envelope at the back of Naruto’s head before he hands it to Kakashi. 

“Iruka-sensei is so mean, you know those guys are trying to manipulate the numbers! I found three mistakes!” Naruto _whines_.

“And just because you’ve found three, doesn’t mean it’s reason enough to get cocky! You’ve got a long way to go and require more training!” Iruka argues back, not quite unkindly, with a flush dusting over his cheeks. “Remember! Arrogance is the cause of a lot of downfall! So don’t be an idiot.” 

“Yes, yes, Iruka-sensei,” Naruto rubs the back of his head, his cheeks puffed out. 

“The test, Kakashi-sama,” Iruka says, sliding the envelope towards Kakashi. “Also, it’s good to have you back in office.”

Kakashi looks up from the envelope at the statement, taking stock of the very small, but seemingly real smile tugging up at the corners of Iruka’s lips. It would have been so easy to miss, so easy to ignore and dismiss for nothing more than polite protocol.

Except it softens the corners of Iruka’s eyes just the tiniest bit, and perhaps it had been just a trick of the light, or perhaps Kakashi is simply too tired to see things before him for what they are, the weight of his responsibility as a village leader, as senpai and a friend weighing him down like lead boots determined to sink him to the depths of the earth. Maybe it’s him hoping to see forgiveness, or understanding, or _something_ other than the image of having to end Tenzou’s life to protect Konoha.

But it warms him when it shouldn't, that barely-there-smile, the softness of it, a balm to the numbness in his chest because he may lose friend. A dear friend. One of so very few who remains alive. It makes his heart skip shamelessly not for the first time.

And as soon as the brief relief passes through him, grief, shame and disgust comes slamming like a devastating punch to the chest.

Gods, he really is a piece of shit, isn’t he? Taking relief from someone he had no _right_ to even seek this kind of comfort from, let alone look upon a rusty image of a once upon a time brilliant, _beautiful_ , smile.

“Ahh, it’s good to be back,” Kakashi simply answers and wishes that Iruka didn't have to smile at him like that. Wishes that the dimple the appears on both of Iruka's cheeks didn't peek at all. 

Not when Kakashi has his husband strapped down and being interrogated like a fucking criminal, five compounds down from his office.

*

It feels wrong to touch Iruka.

It feels wrong to taste Iruka’s lips, Iruka’s warm skin under Kakashi's tongue.

It’s all wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Kakashi didn’t want to break their cycle, didn’t want to leave Iruka to the seedier characters of Konoha’s citizens. Kakashi’s mouth go slack, as his head dips, his tongue brushing over his lower lip, his cock that had been twitching with interest — because it’s Iruka, beautiful, warm, passionate Iruka — now nothing but flaccid flesh within the confines of his pants.

Iruka doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

Iruka doesn’t say anything.

They stand there, in the dark corner of Kakashi’s guest room, desire completely gone, cold brushing against their skin before Kakashi simply reaches forward and wraps his arms around Iruka, fingers gently carding into Iruka's longer, loose hair, spreading wide at the back of his skull as Kakashi just holds him, one cheek pressing against the side of Iruka's head.

The warmth of it, perhaps even the kindness of it, the gentleness of it, leaves Iruka in tears. 

(A never ending mourning — Kakashi understands.)

*

Kakashi stops fucking Iruka. 

He holds him instead, every weekend while still picking him up at the bar that has become their meeting place, like it’s his duty. That part remains unchanged. Until one day, after months of silence, Iruka whispers:

“I still miss him. So very, very much…”

Kakashi stares at the strands of Iruka’s hair before he closes his eyes, channeling enough chakra before he responds:

“I know…”

He presses his fingers to the side of Iruka’s temples and throws him into a genjutsu where the person holding him isn’t Kakashi but Tenzou. Kakashi watches Iruka's form relax, watch him lie on the bed, cozied up, a ghost of smile tugging loosely at slightly parted lips, as Iruka inhales the familiar scent of cedar trees and musk in his mind, nothing to do with Kakashi at all. 

Burrowed under the blanket, Iruka sleeps deeply, soundly, easily, and when the sun rises, Kakashi untangles himself slowly away from him, brushing soft hair that smells like fresh oranges and roasted cinnamon sticks off that beautiful face, pulling gentle fingers away when Kakashi realizes he’s tracing Iruka’s jawline. Like a lover.

“I’ve caused you too much pain,” Kakashi murmurs, his words thick with guilt that he knows will never go away. “I’ve taken so much from you. But bear with me just a little longer. If I can, I’ll bring him back to you somehow…”

*

Kakashi’s patience gets tested. 

But one afternoon, after a harrowing meeting with the council that leaves Kakashi’s patience spread too thin, Ibiki appears with a folder in hand. He is a towering presence that seems to cast a dark shadow in the entirety of Kakashi’s office. It certainly leaves Iruka looking surprised because a visit from Ibiki is a rare occurrence.

“Go home, Iruka,” Kakashi commands, his gaze locked with Ibiki.

Iruka doesn’t question the command. Like an obedient dog, Iruka stands from his seat, marking what he had been working on before politely announcing his departure. His presence fades beyond the soft click of the door, footsteps disappearing as he walks down the hall towards the exit.

It is then that Ibiki extends the confidential report towards Kakashi, pages thick, with very detailed accounts of what Yamanaka has managed to scrape from Tenzou’s subconscious. Kakashi reads through them as everything in him begins to shake apart, sees mentions about a fall, a ravine, memory of being submerged in water and a holding tank, something about chemicals and most of all, repeated memories of Umino Iruka, words Tenzou’s subconscious mind _clings_ to. They had been the hardest to extract, the toughest to get to. Kakashi doesn’t realize how he isn’t breathing when he reads the conclusion signed by Ibiki himself.

Tenzou is clear.

He wasn’t captured and tortured.

He isn’t a defect.

He did _not_ betray Konoha.

Kakashi shudders out a sigh of relief, heat burning behind his eyelids as he swallows thickly, his knees weak, almost as soft as cotton, boneless. If he stands now, he doubts he’d be able to do so without grabbing onto the edge of the table. The relief is crippling. Ibiki's presence is the only thing that keeps Kakashi from moving at all, the only thing that keeps him intact in that very moment when every part of him wants to come crashing to the ground.

Kakashi has to face Tenzou now and the funny thing is that Kakashi doesn’t know what’s worst anymore: killing Tenzou or facing him after what Kakashi has done.

“Wake him up,” Kakashi says, closing the folder before him and handing it back to Ibiki. If the folder shakes in his grip, Ibiki says nothing. “I will speak with him. Let’s see if I can trigger a reaction out of him.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama.”

*

Tenzou is seated shirtless, conscious, a little pale around the edges, his eyes lined with dark circles, while everything about his expression remains dark, hooded. It’s not quite irritation glazing the surface of his eyes, but something more. There’s a promise there, a kind of thirst that Kakashi isn’t quite accustomed to being at the receiving end. Not from Tenzou. 

If Tenzou had been a little more expressive, Kakashi imagined he’d be sneering at this point, lips curling back to bare teeth, like a caged animal wanting to swipe its sharp claws at its captor.  
  
The shackles are honestly overkill. 

Tenzou may be strong still, may still remember his ability, but with ANBU and several shinobi surrounding the building, with how sharp Tenzou’s collarbones juts out, the more leaner carve of his muscle on his structure, at best, Tenzou would last five minutes between the holding cell and Konoha’s gates, assuming he even makes it out of the building. Kakashi can read months of lack of training on the lines of Tenzou’s body, knows that at this stage, that numbers trumps will and ability.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” Kakashi prompts, breaking the stare down because he knows, oh how he knows, that Tenzou would never speak first.

He’s trained to be as silent as the dead in situations like this.

“I never pegged you for the type of guy to spend time at a farm, be a farmer, but I suppose it is a little fitting…” 

Kakashi keeps his tone casual, relaxed, and isn’t at all surprised when Tenzou doesn’t break his focus, doesn’t even twitch at the taunt. 

“You still don’t recognize me, huh?” Kakashi prompts again, and gets nothing in response. He reaches up and tugs his mask down, sighing as he reaches into his utility pouch to pull out the small stack of slightly crumpled photographs that he's held on to all these years, held together by two overlapping rubber bands. “I am not your enemy. I am not here to harm you. In fact, I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s going to be over two years since you’ve gone missing. Three come January ten.” 

Tenzou doesn’t bat an eyelash, his shoulders deceptively slumped in a show of unguardedness. 

Kakashi takes his time undoing the rubber bands, setting them aside on the table. He picks the first photo from the stack, one that shows Iruka grinning at the camera, his cheek pressed against Tenzou's, both of them dressed in their uniforms. He holds it up, dangling it under his hand within Tenzou’s field of vision, Kakashi’s elbow resting on the table. 

“Do you recognize him?” Kakashi asks and waits for Tenzou to turn his attention to the photo.

Tenzou doesn’t.

His focus remains on Kakashi, determined, darker now, the thirst very palpable -- any shinobi with survival instincts will be able to see it. If Tenzou’s chakra hadn’t been sealed away, the sweep of killing intent would be suffocating. He waits for Tenzou to shift his attention, waits for him to look.

Tenzou doesn't.

“Look at it,” Kakashi says softly, a minute stretching to several. When Tenzou still doesn’t listen, something in Kakashi _snaps_. He reaches forward then, all lightning and merciless ferocity, going for where he knows Tenzou will be the softest, the most vulnerable.

(Kakashi memorized the report. What he understands is this: Iruka is the only thing in the sea of lost of memories that had kept Tenzou on his feet. It's the one thing that even after everything, Tenzou cannot forget because Iruka is what made -- what makes him the strongest.)

What was it that Tenzou had said all those years ago? Ah, right. He's all the good that's worth fighting for. Kakashi's lip twitches, half amused, half self-deprecating. “Fight strong, right?”

 _That_ gets a reaction.

That draws Tenzou inwards, like a bowstring being cocked as his lips press to a _visible_ thin line, his jawline shifting, as something shifts in his gaze and he almost, _almost_ sneers. It’s such a small shift, barely anything if one doesn’t know Tenzou at all.

But Kakashi does.

He’s struck a nerve so raw, so vulnerable that he tosses the picture across the table, watching it slide until it comes to a stop right before Tenzou. He does the same with the others, scattering memories that Tenzou can’t remember at all, happier days, brighter days that aren’t shrouded with a veil, where Tenzou looked happy, where Iruka’s smiles had been as wide as the sky, as bright as the sun.

“Tell me you remember him,” Kakashi says, the syllables whisper soft.

And Tenzou looks down, unraveling as he stares at the pictures scattered on the table. Kakashi watches as Tenzou’s eyes slowly widen, his lips parting, slacking to an expression that looks on at a loss, directionless, pupils darting from one photo to the other before it settles on one particular selfie-photo taken by Tenzou, the one where Iruka has his hair down, dressed in a dark, burgundy yukata, an arm looped around Tenzou’s arm, looking up with dimples dotting his cheeks in what looks like Konoha’s spring festival in the background. 

Tenzou stares at that photo the longest, the lines of his face softening for one vulnerable moment, barely longer than a heartbeat before he closes his eyes, his jaw grinding as Kakashi thinks, _say his name, please, please just Iruka’s name_.

But Tenzou doesn’t.

Instead, he looks back up at Kakashi, his expression placid, if not darker.

As expected of ROOT. 

As expected of Tenzou.

“I’ll make you a deal because I am not your enemy,” Kakashi says, standing up and gathering the pictures back to a small stack, leaving the one Tenzou stared at the longest. “I know you recognize him. I know you’re not speaking because you think none of this is real. That you’re being held in contempt. You’re not. You are entitled to rehabilitation after a serious injury that has robbed you of your memories. And as your Hokage, I’ll let you go if you can trust me, my people and not harm them when all we want to do is get you back on your feet. You will be relocated to a different facility, where you will work with individuals to stimulate your memory and hopefully get you integrated back into the village. It’s protocol for cases like you. But as your friend, your senpai, I’ll take you to _him_ if you can tell me his name. Immediately. Right now.”

Kakashi snaps the rubber bands back in place, tucking the small stack back into his utility pouch. 

“You’d go against your own rules for a ‘friend’?” Tenzou asks, his voice hoarse, thick like gravel.

Kakashi smiles a little self deprecatingly, as he shakes his head. “People who abandon their friends are worse than trash. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you home sooner.” Kakashi tugs his mask up before he reaches up and taps the photo on the table. “I’ll leave with this you.”

Tenzou says nothing.

Then again, Kakashi shouldn’t be surprised.

*

It becomes a waiting game of sorts.

Tenzou remains in his cell, mostly compliant, the photo taped on the wall where he spends most of his days staring at it while seated on his cot.

They start by removing the shackles, giving him more mobility to roam the small four by four cell. Tenzou remains compliant, quiet, eats his meals on time, gives no trouble. He allows himself to be examined by a medic but otherwise is uncooperative speech-wise. 

Except the one time Tenzou looks up at Kakashi and tells him, exactly three days later, with every intention to deliver his threat, “If anything happens to the farm and its inhabitants, you will pay for their lives.”

Kakashi is caught off guard by the threat if only because it’s such a rookie mistake, taunting your captor. Until Kakashi realizes that it’s not a threat at all, but a promise.

A promise because Tenzou _knows_ the civilians of the farm are probably dead already because that would be the logical conclusion to reach if one thinks they're being held captive. After all, ANBU leaves no traces behind them.

(Small victories, Kakashi thinks. At least Tenzou isn’t trying to escape or worse, harm any of those around him. At least he’s talking.)

*

Kakashi knows of the farm and its inhabitants. Knows they are harmless and if anything, Konoha owes them a debt for saving one of their own.

Kakashi knows of the threats Tenzou has managed to bury and keep them safe from. Kakashi tells himself there’s no harm in letting two of his summons keep an eye on the farm. Just until he can fix Tenzou.

*

At Tsunade’s recommendation to stimulate Tenzou’s memory, Kakashi starts sending things he remembers Tenzou used to like, anything to trigger his memory. Architecture books, his favorite snacks, old issues of magazines that Kakashi remembers Tenzou used to fawn over during their younger days like a fanboy. He gives him another picture of Iruka, the one of them in their uniform. 

It gets taped on the wall right next to the other photo.

By the fourth week, Kakashi has Tenzou reassigned to a bigger holding cell, one that has a television and player set up, along with seasons worth of Tenzou’s favorite television drama series. 

Tenzou doesn’t touch it immediately, not until the medic responsible for him sighs and randomly selects one from the stack. 

Tenzou never changes the discs himself, only approaching the television to shut it off once the episode is completed. 

Kakashi is told that he watches everything, though. With rapt attention, apparently. Some can even call it interest.

(Then again, when you’re a prisoner, what else do you do?)

*

As winter covers Konoha in snow, Kakashi gives orders for Cat’s mask to be remade and sends it to Tenzou. He gets told that Tenzou simply stares at it, not touching it, his elbows remaining on his sides and not betraying anything at all to those keeping an eye on him.

Through it all, Kakashi visits him, like clockwork, every day, at exactly ten in the evening and asks him one thing.

“Do you remember him?” 

The answer is always silence, with Tenzou simply staring at the interrogation table.

*

Until one day, Tenzou wakes up with a crippling headache that leaves him curled in his cot, hands pressing against the side of his head, blanket tugged over as if to block out whatever brightness of the world.

It’s the first time Tenzou struggles against the medic.

It’s the first time he lashes out defensively, only because he’s vulnerable, because the migraine must have been so bad that he just wants to be left alone.

He also refuses medication. 

*

The headache tapers on and off, leaving Tenzou in what the medic dubs as a sour mood. 

The frequency of Tenzou waking up in a start, drenched in cold sweat despite the winter temperatures, also increases.

It doesn’t help with his mood, waking up violently like that apparently.

There’s only one thing positive that comes out of Tenzou’s stubborn silence and suffering.

It exhausts him.

*

January ten comes with a certain somber note that Kakashi washes away with a stiff glass of whiskey, sitting alone in his desk, staring at the neat, organized surface of Iruka's desk. He doesn’t know where Iruka is, he doesn’t want to know where Iruka is.

Frankly, at that very moment, Kakashi doesn’t care.

It’s ten thirty when he steps into the interrogation room. Tenzou is motionless as usual, dressed in warmer clothes given the winter, except instead of sitting with his palms on the table, Tenzou is slouched on the chair, staring at his hands resting on his thighs like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, his hair hanging down his face like a long curtain, its tips now brushing against his shoulders, much like it did all those years ago, when Tenzou had gone by the name of Kinoe.

“Do you remember him?” 

Tenzou doesn’t respond. 

Kakashi knows that eight weeks and no improvement means he has no other choice but to slowly assimilate Tenzou back as a shinobi. He had hoped to get some sort of reaction out of him first before turning to that kind of discussion. Had hoped he could involve Iruka as opposed to doing it in the shadows.

“You’re so intent on having me remember him, why don’t you tell me about him,” Tenzou counters.

It’s almost a challenge.

One that Kakashi has no problems accepting.

Kakashi stares at Tenzou for the longest time, weighing his options. The response is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“He’s all the good that’s worth fighting for.”

“Oh?”

“Those were your words,” Kakashi returns. “Almost seven years ago when I asked you if you were happy, that was your response.” Tenzou says nothing. “He is a dedicated teacher, the best there is. He is kind, understanding, intelligent, honest and hard working, beloved by all his students even years after they’ve left his classroom and surpasses him in ability and rank. He has a sense of humor, isn’t afraid or intimidated by rank or stature. He doesn’t shy away from open discussion, is probably the most empathetic human being I know. He is fiercely loyal, he loves like no other. He loved you, _loves_ you still, that three years and counting, he still misses you. Mourns for you. He’s the most beaut—“ Kakashi snaps his mouth shut, sudden and almost with an audible click with how hard his teeth almost clack together.

He’s said too much.

This is too much and he’s crossing a line.

“Beautiful.” Tenzou finishes. “Right?”

Kakashi looks up at that and watches with hope filling his chest as Tenzou brings both hands up to press the heels of his palms against his eye sockets, long and hard before scrubbing his palms down.

Gods, Tenzou looks so tired. Worn out. The fight and stubbornness all but gone at this point. 

“Do you remember him?” Kakashi asks, the breath stuck somewhere in his throat.

“Not his name,” Tenzou murmurs, “Sometimes he…”

Tenzou snaps his mouth shut, before dropping his gaze back on the table.

Kakashi thinks, fuck it. Just fuck it. 

He should have done this from the start.

He stands, dragging his chair across the room and sitting himself across Tenzou, turning Tenzou in his chair, their knees pressing against each other as he grabs Tenzou by the shoulder. 

Kakashi prompts, squeezing Tenzou. “You recognize him, don’t you? You _know_ him. You _must_ know him. His memory kept you going all this time, right?”

Tenzou looks up at Kakashi briefly before dropping his gaze back to his knee caps.

“Do you want to meet him?” Kakashi asks.

“You’d let me?” Tenzou counters.

Kakashi cups Tenzou’s face and forces him to look up to meet his gaze. 

Gods, It’ll hurt Iruka. It’ll hurt him so much but Kakashi thinks seeing each other might spark something. If it doesn’t, then neither of them have much to lose. If anything, Iruka may get some sort of peace out of this.

Kakashi nods before he steps out, the weight of Tenzou's gaze following him the entire time. 

Kakashi orders for Tenzou be transported to a different room with access to shinobi with lower security clearance. Given the date and how late it is, Kakashi doesn’t think Iruka would be in any emotional shape, if he’s even sober, to handle this meeting.

Kakashi sets the meeting for ten in the morning.

*

A smart decision given how Iruka shows up, without fail, to his morning shift, more muted than normal, a little pale around the edges from a hangover but otherwise functional.

Kakashi spent all night and the rest of the morning leading up to the meeting thinking how he was going to give Iruka a heads up. There are no words for a moment like this. Each time he opens his mouth, the words replaying itself in his mind, he snaps it shut just as quickly.

I’m sorry I took this long to find him.

I’m sorry I sent him out in the first place.

I found him but he has no memory due to an injury.

I kept him from you because I wasn’t sure if he was a traitor or not. I’m sorry I kept this from you. 

By ten fifteen, Kakashi gives up and stands.

Iruka is in the middle of making corrections on a balance sheet when Kakashi taps his desk with a finger and commands, “Come with me.”

*

Iruka is silent through it all, a knit of puzzlement between his brow as Kakashi leads him to the compound of Torture of Interrogation, bypassing it’s reception and down its halls. They come to a stop before door, where the wards are adjusted by Iruka’s palm being pressed on the seal by the door before the guard bows and makes himself scarce.

“Hokage-sama, is everything all right?” Iruka asks, confused.

“Iruka,” Kakashi swallows, before he shudders a soft exhale, placing a hand on Iruka's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just… be patient and open minded okay?”

Iruka blinks a few times but otherwise nods very slowly.

Kakashi pushes the door open, ushering Iruka inside who comes to a slow, frozen halt as all the color drains from his face when his eyes rests upon the figure seated on the chair, shackled as a security measure, because its protocol to keep the area where there may be civilians safe.

Tenzou is staring, wide eyed from under the fall of bangs, almost disbelieving as the chains of his shackles rattle for the tiniest second, silenced when Tenzou shifts and presses his palms together between his legs.

They’re shaking.

Tenzou’s hands are shaking.

The world seems to spin to a halt as Kakashi watches Iruka take a tentative step forward, and then another. And another. Until he’s standing in front of Tenzou’s chair, slowly lowering himself to the ground, kneeling before him and looking up at him in disbelief.

Iruka’s voice is as thick as gravel, wet, suffocated around the edges. “T-Tenzou?”

And Kakashi watches with a relief that leaves him leaning heavily against the door, when Tenzou’s lips twitch up just the briefest moment, uncertain, almost shy, apologetic _, ashamed._

There’s something there. A flicker of recognition. So incredibly bright like the North Star.

Tenzou nods once, his eyes closing as he forces himself to hold very still, when Iruka ducks his head and weeps, both hands covering his mouth as he presses his forehead to Tenzou’s knees, grief and relief tearing past his mouth, muffled by the press of his fingers as Tenzou watches him weep, his hands remaining in white knuckled fists between his knee caps.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not plan for this to be an all Kakashi chapter.
> 
> Feel free to yell in the comments or a tumblr @pinkcatharsis
> 
> I suck at answering comments but I LOVE YOUR REACTIONS!!!


	10. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

The shackles coming free is deafening.

The shift in chakra in the room is palpable when Kakashi undos the binding seal, setting Tenzou’s chakra free, leaving Tenzou a touch disoriented as he sags heavily on the chair he’s sitting on.

The iron rattles noisily, cutting through the silence that had filled the room as the shinobi departs with them without a word. Kakashi follows them, sparing Tenzou one last look before the door closes with a resounding click.

Iruka is left alone kneeling there, looking up at Tenzou who seems to be drawn inwards, like he’s trying to hide himself in an invisible shell, elbows pressing to his ribs, his gaze flickering between his freed hands and Iruka’s face. 

At some point, Tenzou’s eyebrows knit together, like he’s struggling with his own thoughts. Iruka has never seen Tenzou so unsure of himself. Tenzou who is always confident, even when he isn’t quite so sure of himself. Even when the weight of guilt and uncertainty had weighed down on his shoulders, even after the war, Tenzou still didn’t look quite like _this_.

Tenzou, with his arms crossing defensively around his middle, his toes drawn inwards, face turned to the side, jaw locked tight, lips pressed to a thin line, an open display of discomfort that Tenzou is still trying so very hard to resist by keeping some sort of placid expression on his face. Iruka watches then, as he shifts in his seat, purposely straightening his posture, trying to deny his own discomfort, to conceal the vulnerability that must be choking him.

Iruka can’t understand it.

He can’t comprehend what he’s seeing before him.

He doesn’t know why Tenzou can’t look at him, why he isn’t bridging the distance between them like he always does whenever he comes home. Iruka can’t understand why Tenzou is purposely not looking at him.

“Tenzou…” Iruka prompts gently, his voice coming out all wrong, the syllables wet as he clears his throat and reaches forward with a hand.

Except Tenzou pulls away, standing up from the chair and putting as much distance as he can between himself and Iruka, shaking his head.

“He either values you too little or he’s a fool,” Tenzou mutters.

Iruka shakes his head, slowly standing up on still soft knees, a soft huff of surprised amusement tearing past his lips. “It’s nice to see you still enjoy complaining about your senpai after being away for so long. Three years hasn’t changed that, I see.”

“Was that not the right thing to say?” Tenzou shrugs.

“I don’t know Tenzou, I mean, I was selfishly hoping for a did you miss me, Iruka? Did you think of me, Iruka? How are you, Iruka? Something along those lines, I suppose.” Iruka shrugs a little helplessly, his eyes prickling traitorously with heat again. Iruka brings fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he swallows past the thickness

“Iruka…” 

“I’m sorry. I’m -- I’m not trying to give you a hard time. But you’ve been gone for three years. I waited for a year. Then, we buried you, there was a funeral and I’ve been trying to let you go this entire time, so you have to forgive my weakness. They don’t give you a fucking manual to handle --” Iruka gesticulates wildly between himself and Tenzou with his hand. “-- _this_.”

“Iruka…”

Iruka grabs the chair and sits himself down, not trusting his ability to remain upright as he tries to calm down the mad race of his heart, a hand coming up to his chest, fingers splaying wide, as if the gesture would somehow slow down the jackhammering under his ribcage. Iruka closes his eyes, scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes to stop any further fall of tears that doesn’t seem to want to stop forming.

The sudden spike of chakra triggers an automatic defensive response.

Iruka is on guard, his hand going straight for his weapon holster, too slow. Too fucking slow.

(You don’t have a reason to be on guard around Tenzou. He’s your husband. Why would you ever be on guard around him? Why would he ever bring you harm?)

Tenzou has Iruka locked in a choke hold, Iruka’s back pressed against Tenzou’s chest, as Tenzou’s arm presses into his windpipe, chokingchokingchoking, spots appearing in Iruka’s field vision. The replacement jutsu kicks in, as Iruka quickly bodily switches with the chair in the room.

It buys him exactly two seconds, before he’s slammed backwards against the wall, the kunai in his hand clattering to the ground from the suddenness of chakra sweeping through him, when Tenzou’s palm comes down mercilessly right in the middle of his face, the metal edges of his forehead protector pressing downdowndown, the command for _release_ bouncing off the walls in the room, loud and clear. 

Tenzou’s chakra is intrusive, sweeping through Iruka’s body like he’s being doused in an ice bath. It leaves goosebumps in its wake, as Iruka snarls and channels enough chakra to switch with the toppled chair again, just as the door throws open and Kakashi steps in.

Iruka is breathing hard when he faces Tenzou, ready to charge forward or counter any oncoming attack.

But Tenzou remains where he is across the room, staring at Iruka with a look of alarm on his face, his hands dropping to his sides with an unreadable look on his face. 

“Maa, I suppose I should be pleased that you didn’t forget _all_ of your shinobi training,” Kakashi announces blithely, toeing the door shut behind him before he leans against it. “Satisfied?”

Iruka looks at Kakashi, trying to figure out what those words can even mean. 

But Kakashi doesn’t answer.

Neither does Tenzou.

Tenzou who simply shakes his head, as he slowly slides down the wall, his palms coming to the back of his skull as he ducks his head forward.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Kakashi murmurs, compassion in his tone as he pushes himself off the wall, his fingers wrapping around Iruka’s wrist and firmly pulling Iruka out of the room.

*

Iruka doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, either.

He is seated across from Kakashi, looking at the face of his Hokage, at the lines tugging around the corners of Kakashi’s eyes, at the slight upturned frown on his lips. Iruka watches as the scar that cuts across the upper left side of Kakashi’s lip twitches briefly when Kakashi sniffs, leaning back on his chair as he swallows and finally looks up to meet Iruka’s gaze, holding out a thick folder. 

Iruka stares at it for a long while, fingers clenching around his own knee caps. Kakashi doesn’t retract the offered folder.

Iruka takes it, frustration bubbling in his veins at the lack of words, the lack of an explanation, the justification on what the fuck just happened. 

Until he opens the folder.

It’s all there, with time stamps and dates.

A detailed medical report on Tenzou’s injury. The prognosis of said injury. Recommendations on what can be done to assist with memory recovery, signed by Tsunade herself. A detailed schedule to be confirmed for structural healing of bones, tissue and muscle. The findings on the interrogation were signed off by Morino Ibiki himself, the Hokage’s seal right next to it. A document clearing Tenzou’s name from any association and possibility of being a traitor, labelling him free from any foreign programming or conditioning. An order for rehabilitation training to be overseen by Sparrow, Raccoon and Stag for six weeks. An order for weekly psychiatric evaluation by ANBU. A release order, signed and sealed by the Hokage, allowing Tenzou to go home to his spouse, Umino Iruka, 011850.

Except home hasn’t been a home in years. 

Iruka stares at the release order Kakashi had signed that morning.

And wishes with every fiber of his being, as he closes the folder and keeps his gaze on the confidential stamp across the brown cover, that he didn’t understand the implication of the documents within. That he would be so naive, so foolish, so _stupid_ , to not see the hidden message that Kakashi clearly cannot put into words. Iruka wishes he didn’t understand protocol, law, order, the importance of safeguarding Konoha’s legacy. He wishes he didn’t know just how valuable the Shodaime’s DNA is, that he would be so blind to the inner workings of Konoha’s bureaucracy. He wishes he didn’t know what it could mean that if Tenzou hadn’t been cleared for betraying Konoha, if he hadn’t been cleared by Torture and Interrogation, if he hadn’t spent over eight fucking weeks being treated like a criminal, sealed, bound in chains, reduced to nothing of his former glory, Iruka would have never know he would still be breathing at all.

That the news that Tenzou lived, that he was even brought home, questioned, tortured too if he had been a traitor or a threat, would have never reached Iruka.

Tenzou would have remained dead if he had been a traitor.

Even if Tenzou had spent weeks well within Konoha’s gates.

If it hadn’t been a head injury and memory loss that had kept him from finding his way home.

Iruka wishes, as bitterness coats his tongue, his stomach churning with nausea that leaves him feeling so sick as he presses a hand to his middle, that he didn’t fucking understand.

Iruka wishes, in that very moment, as anger _thrums_ in his blood like rolling thunder, the blood roaring in his ears, as loud as war drums, that he could throw accusatory words like a naïve idiot, that he wasn’t well versed, that he can bury his knowledge, his pride, everything that made him a shinobi the same way he had buried Tenzou two years ago after that one year mark had ended.

Iruka wishes he had it in him to be weak. 

That he can allow himself too, when he’s so tired of being strong, so tired of trying to move on in a world that had mercilessly continued to spin while Iruka's remained in the past.

Iruka wishes that he didn’t understand _duty_.

That he can yell what his body _yearns_ to shout out at the Hokage’s face, at the council’s face, at anyone who would fucking listen, _how dare you? After all the years he’s served, all the times he’s bled for the village, how dare you just erase him without even letting his loved ones know? How dare you rob your loyal citizens their right to bid their loved ones goodbyes? How could you even think that you can just bury this secret, carry on like you didn’t just put a man down like he’s worth less than cattle? How dare you! When I trusted you, I stayed with you, I went with you, I held on to you, I was comfortable with you, I kissed you, I laid in your arms for hours, I trusted you, I trusted, I fucking trusted you!_

Iruka says none of that because he can’t.

Because the truth is, Iruka is very aware of where his position is the hierarchy. The truth is, Iruka knows that all this was probably not in Kakashi’s control. It’s not like any of then can see in to the future.

The truth is, Iruka knows it’s not Kakashi’s fault at all.

But goddamnit.

Goddamnit it all.

What comes out instead is this:

“So this is why you couldn’t fuck me anymore...” 

Iruka looks up and watches how Kakashi goes deathly still. 

He watches as all the color drains from Kakashi’s face, as dark irises drops downwards, Kakashi’s jaw going tight, grinding, grinding, grinding, and all Iruka can think of is _good_ , as the satisfaction of reaching forward so callously, so cruelly, as the weight of Kakashi’s confession remains on his lap, continues to press down, down, down, quenches the thirst for _something_ in Iruka’s throat.

The satisfaction of it leaves him heaving for breath that tastes bittersweet. It leaves Iruka’s head spinning with headiness as the _hurt_ , the raging fire that ignited somewhere in its shadowy emptiness in the yawning cavity in the middle of Iruka’s chest explodes outwards, burning everything in it path in nine simple words.

Iruka huffs out a disbelieving breath, his lips pulling back in a sneer for a moment as he glares at the only person he can even discuss any of this with. 

“Forgive me…” Kakashi murmurs, dipping his chin a little lower.

And just like that, the fight leaves Iruka, his anger draining out of him like blood flowing out of a slit carotid vein. It leaves Iruka weakened, shaking in the sudden cold of the small office, when he shouldn’t be so cold anymore; Tenzou is alive, he breathes, even when he doesn’t have any recollection of he is, what he is, where he is from or anything from his past prior to his injury beyond scattered images of falling, being held in an experimental tank and Iruka himself.

Iruka is tired.

Gods, he is so fucking tired.

“There’s nothing to forgive so please don’t apologize for duty,” Iruka whispers and wishes that it wasn’t true, that it wasn’t so fucking earnest in its delivery and meaning, as he shakily extends the confidential folder back to Kakashi, watching it tremble in his grip as the tears carves down his cheeks, burning trails in its wake. “I understand. And if you had to make a different decision, then, more than anyone, Tenzou would have understood too…”

Kakashi’s face crumples at that statement, a brief show of uncontrolled vulnerability, he grabs the folder and just like that, Iruka watches all the walls go up. Kakashi grabs the edge of his mask, dragging it back up, his eyes sliding shut as he adjusts it over the bridge of his nose.

When Kakashi looks up, he looks ruthless, cold, distant, nothing like the man that held Iruka for the past few weeks.

And Iruka is fine with that.

He can deal with the callousness. 

(Because the truth is, Iruka doesn’t know what to do with the warm person tucked underneath the mask, whose arms remained strong, always so strong, so, so warm when they wrapped around Iruka.)

Kakashi pulls out a copy of the release order from the folder. 

“Report to Ibiki tomorrow. He’ll take it from here. Don’t bother reporting to the office for the next two weeks. You’ve got quite the challenge ahead of you.”

Iruka takes the release order from Kakashi, both of them standing at the same time. 

“Yes, Kakashi-sama.”

*

Iruka goes home that night and stares at the small space of his studio apartment. 

He takes one look at his bed, remembers the countless strangers that had pressed his weight down on the mattress, how many times he had grabbed onto the metal railing as his body took in the brutal pounding. He thinks of taste of flesh under his tongue, the countless times he had woken up barely able to move, the smell of body fluid rancid like acid in his room. He thinks of how many times his door had opened and closed to a sea of strangers, men and women, all of them leaving their mark in the crumpled sheets, the used glasses, the dustbin that would reek of cum soiled condoms, the bottles of hard liquor that would lay forgotten on the table, sometimes toppled over, staining his carpet, seeping into the furniture.

And at the end of it all, is Kakashi.

Kakashi who grits his teeth when he comes, who comes with a tight groan rumbling at the back of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he stifles something he doesn’t want to quite say, the scent of pine and open fields filling Iruka’s nose, so completely different from the man he loves, and yet never failing to lull Iruka to sleep. 

It is always the last thing Iruka remembers before his world goes black, his body giving into the brutality of Kakashi’s fucking. 

It is always the first thing that rouses Iruka back to the world of the living.

Iruka’s stomach _turns_ , as he suddenly gags, a hand coming up to his mouth as he darts for the bathroom, dropping to his knees on the cold tiles. 

Iruka vomits, heaving viciously as realization dawns on him on what he has done. He holds on to the edge of the seat, emptying acid and bile, the rotting reality of how he has been living his life, withdrawn from everything that had once made him who he was, cut off from the things he once loved because everywhere he looked had been a reminder of the man he had lost.

Or thought he had lost.

Iruka cannot bring Tenzou home to this apartment.

He can’t.

Iruka dry heaves, spit and stomach acid trickling out of his throat and into the toilet.

“ _Fuck_! _”_ Iruka _growls_ , hands balling into fists as he buries his face in the crook of his arm and grits his teeth, tears carving down his cheeks as he thumps his head repeatedly against his arm, over and over again, shame coming in waves. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck!_

Iruka brings both palms to his cheeks down sharply, trying to clear his thoughts as he picks himself up, wiping the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes as he exhales loudly, harshly, allowing himself to vocalize the never ending scream echoing from within in a single, sharp exhale - _hah_!

This is not the time and place to be falling apart.

This is not the time and place to mourn for the possibilities of what Tenzou would say if he knew what Iruka had done, how he’s been living his life. How Tenzou would look at him if he knew how many times, over the past few months, Iruka had _only_ gone home with none other than Hatake Kakashi. His senpai, of all people.

This is not the time and place to wallow in guilt and shame.

Tenzou’s well being, his recovery, his rehabilitation -- those are the things Iruka should be worrying about.

Iruka picks himself up from the floor, turns the tap on and splashes ice cold water on his face and neck. 

If Tenzou needed to be reminded of his previous life, then bringing him home here, to this small studio apartment, is not the wisest. 

Iruka looks at the wall clock beyond the open door of his bathroom.

He had enough time to restore their home to some of its former glory.

*

When the sun rises, Iruka stares at the bare walls of the clean, aired out apartment, the sheets that had covered the furniture and the clothes that hung in the closet now sitting folded in one of the stacked boxes by the main door.

The paintings are up, the second pair of clean curtains billowing gently through the open window. The heater remains functional, as does the running water because Iruka had never stopped paying the necessary utility upkeep, too unprepared to fully let the house go. He replaced all the light bulbs, the sheets, the throw pillow cases, and the batteriesof their wall clocks. Whatever display and knickknacks that hadn’t been broken, those that were salvaged from Iruka uncontrolled rage all those years ago sits displayed in their proper places.

The only thing missing are the pictures, Mango and Tenzou himself.

All three of them would probably be impossible to restore. After all, Mango has been Hinata’s cat for over two years now.

Iruka also isn't naïve to ignore and be fully optimistic of Tenzou’s recovery, despite Iruka’s unshakeable determination to do everything he can to help Tenzou; Tenzou’s prognosis stated a fifty-fifty chance of full memory recovery, after all. He isn’t an idiot to turn a blind eye at the possibility that Tenzou, one day, may just not want to be with him anymore if he doesn’t remember the past; full recovery of past memories may take years.

Iruka understands and values realistic expectations.

As he takes a look around the house that has goosebumps suddenly breaking all over his skin as he wraps his arms around his middle tightly from the cold, he wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t understand things.

He wishes he had been naïve.

*

They don’t seal his chakra. They don’t bother with the shackles.

They tell him to expect to leave in the morning. 

They tell him that his rehabilitation program is to begin as soon as he completes his healing session at the hospital, that the designated team assigned to oversee his training will come find him.

Morino Ibiki hands him a paper bag with a clean pair of pants, shirt and shoes. On top of it all is the gleam of a polished new happuri, Konoha’s symbol etched on the center.

Tenzou spends all night holding Konoha’s symbol in his hands, the pads of his fingers tracing the indent of the symbol on metal, waiting for anything to surface, for anything familiar to fill the gaps in his mind.

Just like the way it did when he rolled the syllables of Iruka’s name repeatedly over the tip his tongue hours ago, how it brought with it the smell of ink on paper, the rustle of pages between a book, the flutter of leaves as wind blows through towering Katsura trees, why the smell of orange and spice had always turned Tenzou’s head every time Sora and Riku would snack on them, because he had caught a whiff of it when he grabbed Iruka in a chokehold, attempting to break the genjutsu free. How suddenly it had made so much sense that Tenzou would spend hours staring beyond the harbor in River, attention always ensnared by the sea, everything in him drawn towards it, whether it rained or shined, because Iruka, Iruka, Iruka, Iruka, Iruka _\--_

“-- _Umino Iruka_.”

Tenzou’s eyes snap open, a sharp inhale slicing through the silence of his room, as something so small clicks into place in his mind, his head turning to look at the two photos taped on the wall next to his pillow. 

Tenzou doesn’t know that name.

He’s never heard it before.

But it’s familiar. It’s _something._

And for the first time in years, Tenzou feels grounded.

*

Tenzou is given a few minutes to change out of his prison sweats and shirt to the clothes provided to him the day before. Tenzou dresses methodically, the happuri perched comfortably over his face and head like he’s never take it off at all. Like he’s never lost it the past three years.

The weight of it is comfortable, familiar. He does not feel silly wearing it at all.

At exactly nine in the morning, Tenzou is escorted by Ibiki down the empty halls towards the front desk, where Iruka stands waiting. Tenzou’s footsteps slow down to a stop when their gazes meet. Iruka isn’t in his uniform, save for his forehead protector. He looks like how Tenzou feels, like he’s spent all night mulling over the revelation of the previous day, the meaning of it all.

Ibiki’s hand claps over Tenzou’s shoulders, jostling him out of his stupor. It seems to have done the same to Iruka because the expression on Iruka melts to a small smile. Tenzou watches him suck in a breath before he bridges the distance between them.

“Good to have you back, soldier,” Ibiki says, as he spares Iruka a glance as a greeting before pulling out an envelope from within the depths of his coat pocket. He hands it over to Tenzou. “Good luck.”

Iruka bows politely in thanks, murmuring Ibiki’s name before Ibiki gives them both a parting nod and leaves them be.

Iruka is looking at him, dimples dotting his cheeks as he tilts his head in question towards the entrance, a silent question that Tenzou nods at in acquiescence.

*

Stepping out of the Torture and Interrogation building and into the crisp end of winter air is liberating. Tenzou isn’t sure why he knows that it’s the end of winter, just by slight smell of the earth’s sweetness permeating through the dry, cool air except that he does. It slides into place, much like how Iruka’s surname had slid into place hours ago. Tenzou looks up at the blue morning sky, at the few early birds flying overhead -- white throated needletails -- to perch on the budding bare trees ahead. Tenzou looks up at the Hokage monuments, brushing studious gaze over the faces of the village’s heroes. 

Heroes.

There is a flash of an old man’s face smoking a pipe, the weight of his frail body heavy in Tenzous arms. White lilies. Someone crying. There is a woman with hair as golden as the sun, ruby nails. Devastating strength. Then there’s a white mask, the shape of a Hound, the howl of a pack of dogs, lighting flowing white, cutting through flesh, silencing screams, the taste of scarred skin under his tongue, callous fingers around his neck. The smile of a boy with wind in his hands, blue eyes, like the sky, cheeky, toothy grin. A girl, rose in her hair, the forest in her eyes, fists that can crack mountains in half. A boy, quiet, withdrawn, black ink staining the sky. There’s a number. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--

“Would you like to take the main roads?” 

Tenzou blinks once, swallowing as his heart starts to race under his ribcage, nervousness making the tips of fingers jittery. He quickly tucks his hands into the safety of his pant pockets, _tearing_ his gaze away from the monument carved into the mountain.

Iruka is looking at him, something soft in his eyes, a ghost of an understanding smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Tenzou swallows, ducking his head in a nod, as he forces himself to calm down, reminding himself that this is a good sign, that he’s remembering things, whatever they may mean, whoever they are. That they aren’t the result of genjutsu, of falsified images put into his head because the Hokage can pull out words that belong to him and only him, then they can easily plant images in as well.

(Fight strong.)

“Okay,” Iruka says, and leads him down a paved side road that goes on and on, nothing but the towering bare trees keeping them company until they make a turn where the path opens up to more buildings.

The symbol of fire is big, red, and bold, fixed on the center of the tower that Tenzou stops to look up at.

Iruka doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why he stops, resuming his walk only when Tenzou’s feet begin to move.

Tenzou walks past shinobi and civilians alike, sometimes a few children. 

It’s the sight of a familiar barbwire fence, surrounded by bushes covered in melting snow, the beginnings of green peeking through the white that slows Tenzou’s feet down once more.

He comes to a complete halt beyond the Academy’s fence, staring at the bare tree where a lone swing dangles from it. Beyond it, across the playground, is a very small patch of purple. Tenzou doesn’t know how long he stares at it, or why he’s staring at the flowering lavender blooms -- it’s unnatural. It shouldn’t be thriving in the frost like this. Tenzou is sure of this much.

The weight of Iruka’s gaze on him is heavy.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Iruka asks, something melancholic in his tone, standing beside Tenzou as he looks beyond the barbwire fence at the small patch of vivid purple lavender. “They used to stretch all the way over there, and beyond that bend.” Iruka points at the wall, trailing a finger all the way down. “I used to be an Academy teacher. That’s my classroom window, over there.” Iruka points up at the second window facing the Academy’s quadrangle. “I’m surprised it hasn’t died out completely. I suppose the Academy staff and the children are doing a better job in maintaining it.”

“It’s unnatural,” Tenzou says, looking back up at the window that used to belong to Iruka’s classroom. “I’m sure it must have been beautiful, though.”

“It was.” Iruka nods. Tenzou turns just in time to see a watery smile shudder to something else, watches as Iruka’s expression gets soiled with grief, a sort of helplessness that makes him shrug and look at Tenzou with an apology. “Everything you grew was always beautiful. This was no exception…”

Tenzou stares at Iruka, unsure of what to respond to that.

*

The house Tenzou steps into is clean, the scent of citrus detergent clinging to the air. It’s been recently scrubbed spotless, not a speck of dust lingering on the polished wood and surfaces of the furniture. Tenzou takes stock of the beige sofas, the white baseboard and light gray walls, the soft fall of white curtains, the dark teal rug under the wooden coffee table, the splash of colored cushions, the thick knitted blanket folded over the arm of the two seater sofa, the gleam of honey colored wooden floors. The kitchen is open, the faint scent of bleach clinging to the gleaming white tiles. The grain of the wooden cabinets also looks like they’ve just been polished. 

The house does not look like it’s been lived in. 

It’s too sterile.

“Do you not live here?” Tenzou asks.

“No.” Iruka turns away, heading past the entryway that leads to a small hallway with four doors. “I moved out a little a over a year ago.”

Tenzou isn’t deaf to the unspoken meaning of those words.

He does not need to be a genius to understand that Iruka couldn’t bear to live in the house he shared with his deceased husband.

“Why don’t you look around, familiarize yourself? Most if not all of your things are still here. I didn’t -- I didn’t get rid of anything…”

“All right…”

*

Tenzou spends hours looking through the house, running his fingers over the flat surfaces, feeling the softness of linen under his fingers. He stares at the bookshelf, at the collection of DVDs arranged alphabetically by the television and sound bar. His toes dig into the plush rug, relishing the feel of soft wool that reminds him of slow afternoons and lazy naps, as the sound of pen scribbling would lull him to sleep. 

Tenzou explores every drawer, examines its content -- folded clothes, paired socks, underwear, a few documents of value, letters, keys, a few greeting cards tucked within envelopes, a drawer filled with sex toys and accessories. Tenzou stares at that for a while, before he slides the nightstand drawer shut with a soft exhale. 

He pulls the closet door open and sees two halves.

The left one is his, he assumes, if only because the shade of green on the vest is different from the one on the right; the one on the right matched the one Iruka had worn the previous day on their first meeting. 

Tenzou looks at the neat rows of hanging casual clothing and uniforms. His eyes trail over the sleeves of dark navy yukata, something familiar because it looked like the one he had been wearing in the photograph Kakashi had left him with, his fingers brushing over the soft cotton fabric, waiting for a memory to surface.

Nothing comes.

Tenzou reaches out to slide the closet shut, when a gleam of gold catches his attention.

On Iruka’s side of the closet, he reaches out to tug the sleeve of soft dark burgundy cotton, gold woven into its threads by the sleeve. Tenzou reaches out for the hanger, pulling it out completely to stare at it fully, confirming that gold is also woven into the bottom hem of the beautiful yukata.

Tenzou hooks the hanger to the handle of the closet door, his eyes not leaving the fabric as he reaches for his pocket to pull out the crumpled photo.

It’s the same one Iruka had been wearing when the photo was taken.

Iruka finds him like that, probably coming in to check on him because Tenzou had gone completely still for a while. 

Tenzou turns to look at Iruka, watching as a flush dusts over his cheeks, darkening by the second as Iruka turns his attention towards the yukata. 

“You got this for me, years ago,” Iruka rubs the back of his neck, the flush burning down the column of his neck. “I wore it to our first Spring Festival together after the war.”

“Here, right?” Tenzou holds out the photograph towards Iruka, whose widens at the sight of it. 

“Where did you get that?” 

Iruka sounds breathless, like he’s seeing something unreal, reaching out for the photo with fingers that shake. Tenzou watches him hold it like it’s made of glass, brushing fingers over the crumpled edges and white lines that now distorts the picture, disturbing the colors.

“The Hokage gave these to me. He thought it might trigger me to remember you.” Tenzou reaches into his pocket and pulls out the second photograph. 

Iruka takes it, a film of salt collecting around the corners of his eyes.

“Did you?” Iruka whispers, swallowing, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing as he looks up from the picture. 

“Not immediately, no,” Tenzou sighs, shaking his head, as he watches hurt and disappointment cut across Iruka’s face. He watches as Iruka nods and tries to pull his lips back into a smile, failing miserably. Something about all that, the grief that carves lines into Iruka’s beautiful face, carves too into the softest parts of Tenzou, leaving him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like that look. It shouldn’t be on Iruka’s face. It doesn’t belong there. “But last night I...” the words trail off, Tenzou clamping his lips shut in the wake of the hope that suddenly lights up within the depths of Iruka’s eyes, like the glimmer of gold dust in the depths of rich, hickory brow. “... your name. It’s Umino. Umino Iruka, right?”

Watching Iruka’s lips carve up is like watching the sun rise. 

It’s a lot more beautiful than Tenzou’s dreams.

“Yes,” Iruka nods, the flush that faded a little, dusting over his cheeks again, huffing a soft exhale that’s partially a gasp, partially a laugh. It’s nice. “That’s me.”

Making Iruka smile like that, it leaves Tenzou feeling just a little more relaxed, a little more relieved.

He’s not quite sure why, except that it feels right.  
  


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going longer than I anticipated. BUT OH WELL.
> 
> Loooooots of references to Beneath the Sun so far. I'm constantly going to back to reread for minor details fbdhjsjbdfnsmfsd!
> 
> I give thanks to [rikacain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain) for that Academy/lavender scene. Her idea :)
> 
> Guys, I am so thankful for your commends, reactions and gosh, I'm gonna try to be better in responding to them! I promise! Please don't ever be shy in spamming me either here or anonymously at tumblr @pinkcatharsis
> 
> I enjoy it! I promise promise promise! Ahhhhhh!


	11. xi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

There is a certain formality in the way Iruka treats Tenzou, something that Tenzou finds odd as he sits down on the sofa, his toes curling into the weave of the thick carpet under the coffee table. Iruka comes with a tray, neatly arranged pot filled with something quite aromatic, along with a serving plate of dried fruit, roasted nuts and crackers. Tenzou watches as Iruka pours dark, red tea, the sound of tea hitting ceramic, the flow of liquid echoing somewhere in the back of Tenzou’s mind.

Tenzou has lost count how many times he’s stared at Chiyo pour tea, how he’s watched the liquid ripple from within the rim of the tea cup, steam wafting upwards. He watches because he knows there’s something about the tea, or the pouring of tea, or maybe it’s aroma, the color -- it had to be _something_.

Now, as the faint scent of blended oolong and black tea -- familiar in its warmth -- wafts in the air, Tenzou realizes it’s not the tea per se. Not really. But the person that he associates warm, freshly steeped tea with. 

Iruka may be formal, what with the whole serving and tray arrangement. But he also tries to maintain some air of casualty. Iruka sits on the single sofa, adjacent from Tenzou, one leg folded underneath him, both hands wrapped around his tea cup, his gaze turned downwards, breaths slow and deep, like he’s savoring that rich aromatic blend. Iruka takes a careful sip of his tea, eyes drifting close, and when he swallows that first sip, Iruka takes a moment to savor the after taste, very briefly chewing on his lower lip before he makes what Tenzou can only interpret, as a pleased expression. His left dimple peeks out, almost winking to anyone who may be watching him. 

It's so familiar, like Tenzou has seen this - Iruka sipping tea, that is - a thousand times. 

Yet he’s seeing it for the first time. 

Tenzou’s stare must have been quite obvious, because Iruka looks at him, parts his lips to say something before deciding against it. A flush begins to darken over the bridge of his nose, making the scar cutting across it appear almost white.

Iruka is embarrassed.

“You didn’t have to do all this, be so formal,” Tenzou says, clearing his throat as he picks up his tea cup and takes a careful sip. It’s good tea. Quite robust. 

“Ahh, it’s no trouble at all. I - well, I wasn’t sure if you had an appetite for anything. I am not sure what the meal arrangement is like with Ibiki’s team, if you were even given anything in the morning. And, you know, I am assuming this is your first time venturing outdoors since you were found and brought back. I didn’t want to be so presumptuous with what you may want or need, especially if everything around you is new, foreign and well — it can’t be easy. And I just… that is… ah…”

Iruka tapers off, the flush on his cheeks darkening, his gaze dropping to his tea cup. There’s a hint of something shy pressing into Iruka’s body language. Tenzou had expected a lot of things from Iruka, what with the reaction he got when Iruka first saw him. This sudden shy awkwardness had not been it.

It seems rather out of place considering how long they’ve been together — married or not. 

Tenzou is sure this isn’t how a significant other would behave. 

“We’re married aren’t we?” Tenzou tentatively says; the concept weighs like a foreign object on his tongue. He is married. He lives with the man he’s been dreaming of, the man who had offered a hand to help Tenzou stand up, to keep moving, when his body had no strength in him left. 

“We are. But…” Iruka doesn't look up, sighing a little deeply, defeatedly.

“But?”

“But you don’t remember us.” Iruka looks up from his cup, tilting his head, shrugging a little helplessly. “Wouldn’t it be wrong to force something upon you when you don’t remember a thing? Wouldn’t it be arrogant, cruel even, to force this relationship upon you when you don’t remember me? You are only here because legally, I am your next of kin. But I am practically a stranger to you. I am a nobody to you. Why would I expect you to want to be with a nobody?”

Tenzou is staring, recoiling just a little bit as he leans back, watching as Iruka blinks a few times, an entire ocean in his eyes as he clears his throat and lowers his gaze, bringing the cup back up to his lips. Tenzou watches with something nagging at the back of his mind, like he’s once more - and not for the first time, it’s been happening a little too often since he had woken up in that cell all those weeks ago - reached the end of a breadcrumb trail. There’s something about how Iruka looks like right now, how he sets his tea cup down, shaking his head, biting his lower lip, the tremble in his fingers that he tucking away out of anyone who may be watching by carefully folding his arms across his middle.

“You were a man who appreciated honesty and transparency, so I have to be honest with you. I’m going to help you get back on your feet, make sure you’re okay. I’ll do whatever it is I need to do, whatever you ask of me to help you remember, settle into things now that you’re back. I promise you that I won’t short-change you in effort when it comes to that. But I also have to be realistic. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll remember anything, if at all. I have to be prepared for the day that you decide that perhaps you don’t want to be here anymore. It’s a learning process and the possibility that you would choose to not be with me, just because we were legally married is something I cannot dismiss.” Iruka brings a palm up to his chest, rubbing a spot on his sternum as he sighs. “I can't sit here and lie to you; I won't. I am hoping that won’t be the case, that you'd remember instead of not. That being said, it doesn’t change the fact that I am happy to know you’re alive, that you’re back and you’re okay. That you’re not dead. That hasn’t changed in the past, even before we got together, that’s not going to change now.”

 _But you’re not a nobody to me_ , Tenzou almost says, as the silence that falls between them is suddenly suffocating. It makes Tenzou think that his lungs are full of river water, or chemicals, or something that makes it hard for it to work. There’s heat under his skin, feverish in its intensity, as something nagging and pulsing at the back of his tries to claw its way forward -- almost there, almost, almost, almost. 

Except like every single time, nothing surfaces. 

It leaves Tenzou sitting there disoriented, the pull of gravity making his entire body sink deeper into the plush comfort of the sofa. It leaves him suddenly exhausted, his limbs heavy, his head even heavier, as he watches, a little helplessly, with his stomach knotting and tightening like an over-rung rug coming apart by its weave, as Iruka turns his head away, blinking the salt out of his eyes as he inhales and tries to compose himself -- it can’t be easy, assuming this Iruka is who he is, that he is indeed the beautiful man Tenzou has been waking up to every morning and trying to find all these years. That this stranger isn’t someone planted by the Hokage, an attempt to reign Tenzou into place, to use him, keep him trapped within these walls, buy his trust from whatever information they had managed to scrape from his mind.

(You’re not a nobody because you are the answer I’ve been waiting for all this time.)

But if this is the man in his dreams, if there is some reality to everything that is going on around Tenzou, then it can’t be easy for Iruka, sitting across a stranger you so dearly love, continue to love, knowing that there may be an end to it after all.

It’s a little cruel, isn’t it?

Tenzou might as well have remained dead to Iruka. That would have been a lot more merciful than this.

At least Iruka won’t have to look like this, vulnerable, weak, so unsure of himself, his lips turned downwards, inevitable heartbreak floating amidst a sea of acceptance, a sort of selflessness that stems from a strength that not many are capable of possessing. Tenzou doesn’t know where that thought or assumption comes from, but he can agree with one thought.

Iruka is better off smiling, the way he did, just a little while ago, when Tenzou had told him his surname.

(He’s always been the most beautiful when he smiles.)

“I understand,” Tenzou says, his voice strangely thick, the words coming out carefully. “Then, until that time comes, whether I remember everything, or if I decide this arrangement can no longer continue, whichever comes first, I leave myself completely in your care.”

Iruka looks amused, huffing a soft breath, as his expression takes on a melancholic edge. The smile doesn’t fully form, but Tenzou sees determination and fire glow in the depths of widely blown pupils, as Iruka looks at him like he’s the only thing that matters, his focus brushing over Tenzou like a warm, soft brush.

“Then, let’s do our best, hmm?”

Tenzou nods, slow and a little determined, even when a part of him refuses to trust what’s before him completely. 

Still, Tenzou hopes he doesn’t quite disappoint Iruka.

Iruka - or at least, the Iruka of his dreams - deserves all the good in the world.

*

The conversation seems to have settled Iruka’s apprehensive nerves.

He is less nervous, less uncertain in his approach when he asks Tenzou simple questions about how to proceed with the day. Tenzou can see the difference in Iruka’s body language after he seems to relax as they empty the tea pot and the plate of snacks. It is with a bit of embarrassment, as Iruka stacks the cup and plates back on the tray to put away that Tenzou’s stomach chooses to growl rather audibly. 

Iruka doesn’t pause in his fussing of putting the dishes away. The dimple that suddenly dots his cheeks though, is enough reason for Tenzou to flush just the tiniest bit, the heat spreading down his neck.

“They didn’t give you any breakfast, did they?” Iruka prompts, turning to give Tenzou a pointed look.

It seemed pointless to lie. So Tenzou doesn’t bother.

He shakes his head and then adds, “They’re not exactly what I’d call gold star worthy when it comes to their meals.”

Iruka’s eyes snap up at that, something gleaming over the surface of his gaze, softening his expression before he ducks his head huffs in amusement, unable to quite smother the grin trying to split his face. It makes Tenzou wonder what it is he said that triggered that reaction.

Still, it’s not ugly to look at; it’s rather nice.

An amused Iruka that is.

“Not gold star worthy, huh?” Iruka pulls the tray towards him before he stands, turning to look at Tenzou. “I’d pay good money to hear and see you say that in Ibiki’s face.”

Tenzou tilts his head in question, raising an eyebrow at the statement. “Sure, I’ll tell him if I get to see him again. Honest feedback, right?”

The grin on Iruka’s face grows wide, unrestrained his head shaking. It doesn’t fade at all even as Iruka heads to the open kitchen with the tray, fussing with the contents in the sink to be washed later. 

“Well, how about we make your first meal out of Torture and Interrogation gold star worthy -- what would you like to have for lunch?”

Tenzou knows for a fact that the kitchen is completely empty, save for the few canisters of tea and coffee and whatever snacks Iruka had served. The fridge, although running, only had chilled drinking water and ice. There’s nothing in the house to eat -- Iruka did mention he had moved out months ago. If the strong smell of cleaning detergents are anything to go by, Iruka probably got told at the very last minute that Tenzou is being released to his care.

Tenzou looks past the stretch of glass of their living room window, beyond the bare, empty slab of concrete that must have been some sort of garden at some point, if the wooden gazebo outside and the bird feeder is anything to go by. 

It may be good to walk around the village, familiarize himself some more and all that.

“What’s your favorite thing to eat?” Tenzou asks, watching a few birds perch on the parapet.

“Me?” Iruka sounds surprised, caught off guard. “Ah, well, Ichiraku ramen I guess…”

“Then, let’s have that.” Tenzou stands, just as his stomach chooses to growl loudly again. Tenzou looks up with what he hopes is an apologetic expression, rubbing the back of his head a little sheepishly. “Ramen sounds good.”

Iruka ducks his head, smothering an expression out of Tenzou’s field of vision, before he murmurs something about a sweater. Something about the possibility of rainfall later.

*

Ichiraku is a small, cozy establishment, with faded posters on their walls, clean counters and chipped wooden bar stools that forces its occupants to sit almost knee to knee. Tenzou notices how Iruka tries to maintain the polite but not exactly yawning distance between them. Their knees brush once as they settle, posture carefully negotiated before Tenzou’s presence attracts shocked gasps. He is subjected to crows of excitement, relief, the young woman behind the counter clapping her hands together in front of her chest. 

“Ahhh, you shinobi have it really rough. Going through the funeral and then this,” the old man sighs deplorably, shaking his head. 

A glance at Iruka shows that he’s taking the comments in stride, despite the firm set of his jaw and the strain tugging around the edge of his smile. Tenzou isn’t sure why they’re referring to him as Yamato, but he plays along, reaching up to rub the back of his head, slouching his shoulders just the smallest bit. 

“You’re so lucky, Iruka-san! To have Yamato-san returned to you!” 

“Ahh, I guess I am…” Iruka offers shyly, a bit of a flush dusting over his cheeks. 

“All right then! This is a cause for celebration! Your first two bowls and sake bottle are on the house! You’ve been making yourself too scarce around here, Iruka!”

“O-Otou-san!” 

“Ah, I only meant that hopefully, this means we’ll be seeing you both some more, ne?” The old man laughs, head thrown back, laughing as his daughter makes excuses on behalf of her father.

It all goes over Tenzou’s head, the words and the meaning of it lost on him. 

It doesn’t quite seem to have the similar effect on Iruka, who keeps his gaze on the chopsticks holder, expression a little dim, a little restrained but not enough to warrant attention. It’s neutral enough, steady, with just the right amount of attentiveness and forced smile that leaves Iruka’s jaw line taut. The socially acceptable expression remains the same until the woman brings them two cups and a bottle of warm sake. Iruka doesn’t meet Tenzou’s eyes, he doesn’t even look over, not until he’s poured the sake and he tips an entire cup back like a shot. 

And just like that, Iruka turns to look at Tenzou, the expression gets a tinge of something a little more genuine, when Iruka tips his chin at the far wall. Tenzou spares the poster hanging on that wall, old, yellowed, torn around the edges, held together by tape within its laminated confines. Tenzou isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

“The ramen flavor on the poster is my favorite. It’s the ‘usual’ Teuchi-san is referring to. You won’t taste anything like it anywhere else. It’s definitely gold star worthy.” 

“That seems like high praise. You sure about that?” 

Iruka gives him a pointed look in response, eyebrow cocked almost cockily before he smirks and turns to his sake cup, simply responding with a hum. An expression Tenzou thinks isn’t quite misplaced when their ramen finally gets serve. 

It’s large, piping hot, steam carrying the inviting scent of miso, vegetables and seared pork. Tenzou knows he’s hungry. He just didn’t realize how hungry he is until he’s polished off the first bowl in mere minutes, the perfectly balanced flavor blend leaving him warm, wholly satisfied with room for more.

He consumes two bowls unabashedly, the lingering flavor of barely flavored food he had been eating for _weeks_ washed off with the rich, creamy miso broth. 

It’s quite delicious. Incredibly filling. Tenzou can understand why such a bowl of humble ramen can become someone’s favorite. 

When he sets his chopsticks down, murmuring his thanks, he finds Iruka looking at him with amusement tugging around the corners of his lips.

Washed by a sudden wave of self consciousness, Tenzou brings a fist to his mouth as he clears his throat, hoping the blush that’s sitting on his cheeks can be dismissed from the leftover effect of mixing in a little too much chili bean paste into his second bowl. He had followed Iruka’s example; he had not been put off by it at all.

“I suppose you’re right,” Tenzou offers as an explanation. “It is gold star worthy.” 

Iruka gives him what had to be his best told-you-so expression before standing to pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

*

If Tenzou had been the type to be interested in blind dates, he would say that his first meal and time spent outside with his husband feels exactly like that. Not that he has any idea if he had been the type to go to blind dates.

It’s that first date where people get to know one and other, mostly with facts about their likes and dislikes. 

They spend the afternoon walking around the length of Tea Avenue, with Iruka pointing out his favorite stores and where to find what if Tenzou ever needs something. Tenzou learns where Iruka’s favorite weapon-smith is, his favorite izakaya and the only place he buys bread from. He learns which places Iruka tends to avoid -- like that small yakisoba stall that left him sick with food poisoning years ago or that bookstore that sells their books at an unfair mark-up. 

Through it all, as the skies gradually start to darken with rainclouds, they walk side by side close enough for anyone to know that they’re accompanying each other but not enough to let them know that they’re husband and spouse. 

Sometimes, they get stopped by a parent. Sometimes it’s a former student. At some point, Iruka almost gets bowled over when two children, no older than six; they come running towards him, tackling and clinging to his waist like monkeys around a tree branch. Tenzou stands there as if he were Iruka’s shadow, watching him as he remains crouched to the children’s height, pacifying them with kind, gentle responses, dancing around their questions about when is he coming back to Academy with vague responses that would sound hopeful and open to a child but a firm and obvious no to an adult. This happens twice in the space of an hour into their walk.

After Iruka waves goodbye to the third child that had bombarded and begged him to come be her sensei again, Iruka begins to stammer out apologies, not quite able to hide how difficult those encounters had been. If anything, Iruka looks like he’s done for the day.

Tenzou dismisses the apologies with a wave of his hand, shaking his head as they resume their walk. “Don’t apologize. I don’t mind. You’re clearly missed.”

“Ah, well…” Iruka shrugs, craning his neck up at the first distant sound of rumbling thunder.

“You said you used to be an Academy teacher. Why did you stop teaching? ” Tenzou prompts, not missing how Iruka goes tense, his jaw visibly grinding.

Iruka doesn’t answer immediately, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his loose, thick hooded sweater. Tenzou almost dismisses the question, almost tells Iruka that he doesn’t need to answer it if he didn’t want.

But Iruka does. 

“I didn’t handle losing you very well.” Iruka laughs a little, the sound of it shallow and self deprecating. “You told me to try to be happy and serve if something ever happened to you. I didn't know how tackle the being happy part. So, I served. But, those kids -- they did not deserve a teacher who isn’t exactly too aware of his surroundings. So I requested to be transferred to the administration team and Hokage-sama offered the position as his assistant. I’ve been there ever since…” 

Iruka drops a bomb that sounds like the truth rather casually. Tezou picks up on the key things; Iruka didn't handle it well, he had not been aware of his surroundings. Those two reasons would have been enough for Iruka to be deemed unfit for active field duty. Were they really that close, was Iruka that much in love with him, that losing him pushed Iruka to abandon something he loved more than anything else in the world?

Tenzou blinks at the thought.

Iruka loves to teach.

That sudden realization leaves Tenzou heart racing, excitement and a sudden rush of adrenaline suddenly spiking in his blood, leaving him torn as he wonders if the realization is genuine, if it is a memory, buried and lost or if it had been planted by these people.

Iruka stops walking all of a sudden, his head turning towards a grocery store, his tone changing to something Tenzou realizes he uses when he’s handling the general public. Iruka sounds different when he’s putting up a polite front. 

“Would you mind if we picked up a few things? It looks like it’ll rain after all and there’s nothing back at the apartment. I didn’t exactly have time to get anything. I was informed only yesterday that you were being released to me.” 

Tenzou didn’t have it in him to deny anything Iruka may ask, assuming that he isn’t putting up a front. It’d take a special level of cruel to deny a man like Iruka anything at this point, not when he’s been trying to live a life after a loss, only to be told that his husband is alive, with no memory and a possibility of it never coming back all within the space of twenty four hours. 

And to be ready to say goodbye again, after a funeral, after mourning -- well.

Tenzou likes to think he isn’t that much of a cruel man.

So he nods, turning towards the grocery store. “I don’t mind. Let’s go.”

*

Tenzou learns that Iruka is also a good cook.

Dinner that night is a quiet affair of oyakudon, spinach gomaee and kakitamajiru. 

Tenzou also learns just how deep Iruka’s grief runs when he commandeers the living room to sleep in, unrolling a spare futon by the sofa, leaving Tenzou to decide if he wants to sleep in their bed or the guest room. 

Tenzou doesn’t argue.

It seemed unkind.

*

That night, as he lies there on his side of the bed, sinking into the comfortable mattress, staring up at the tinted one-way glass window above the bed, dressed in his clothes, tucked under his blanket, Tenzou waits for anything familiar to surface.

But he falls asleep too quick, too soon, his guard coming down rather recklessly, warmed by the weight of the comforter and extra sheet underneath it, strangely comfortable, the soft scent of cotton and clean detergent lulling him to what feels like his first deep, and restful sleep in years.

*

They say the mind may forget but the body remembers.

Tenzou sleeps dreamlessly well past the usual time he wakes up to before dawn. He is shaken awake by Iruka, worry etched between his brow as Tenzou stirs awake and blinks through the brightness filtering through the parted curtains and the glass ceiling above. Those curtains were drawn shut the night before. Iruka must have opened them in an attempt to wake Tenzou up because he should have been awake an hour ago. His regenerative healing is supposed to start in twenty minutes.

Either a part of Tenzou had trusted Iruka’s presence subconsciously, or he was just that exhausted to not have heard Iruka come into the room and do something as obvious as let the nine o’clock sunshine pour into the room. 

Tenzou doesn’t know which of the two is more dangerous. 

It’s the first and last time it happens.

*

Tenzou’s adjustment period begins with the first physically agonizing healing session that is scheduled to be staggered over the course of nine days, with a period of rest of one day in between.

They break and regrow his bones, forcing them back to their correct alignment, getting rid of hardened tissue and re-growing the correct ones. 

It leaves him groaning through gritted teeth for _hours_ , sweat beading over his forehead as the ink painted on his skin seeps into his pores and disappears. It leaves him in a less than amicable mood. It also leaves a lingering numbness in the area of focus that tapers off to slight tenderness that makes him hyper-aware and sensitive each time he moves.

His left leg is the last thing they work on.

It is the worst pain of it all.

It had been so painful that Tenzou doesn’t realize he had passed out in the middle of it until he’s inhaling the foul stench of smelling salts, the medic patting him on the shoulder and telling him they’re done for the day. 

Through it all, Iruka would walk him to the hospital, wait in the waiting room and gently fuss once he’s done. Tenzou is usually too tired after the hours of healing to stop it or pay it any attention. 

It’s about as annoying as the Himura-boys watching AND trailing after him once he had been able to stand and walk around with a cane -- that is to say, it’s not annoying at all. Iruka is cautious but doesn’t crowd him, much like how the boys had been warned to not piss off shinobi-san. 

The healing sessions may have been agonizing but once done, Tenzou notices a big difference in his ability to move. It’s easier, less stiff, the range a whole lot wider than he’s been used to since the day he woke up on that farm.

It makes him question his suspicion. 

After all, if they had wanted to control him, fixing him and sealing in a programmed command would be just as organic, if not less time consuming.

*

Maybe the Hokage hadn’t been lying.

Maybe Konoha isn’t his enemy.

Maybe Konoha _is_ his home.

It certainly feels like home the longer he spends time around Iruka, the longer he watches him just _be_.

The fact that he’s been sleeping undisturbed in and of itself speaks volumes.

*

Tenzou gets a surprise visit from three teenagers who fill the house with noise, excitement and a few teary gazes. It’s a surprise because the flash of an image Tenzou had seen the first time he stepped into Konoha’s air finally becomes a reality when they appear. 

They seemed to have been informed of Tenzou’s state of not remembering anything by Kakashi-sensei; Tenzou draws the conclusion that the current Hokage had been their teacher, just like how Iruka had been theirs. Tenzou had not expected them to be this close knitted. They seemed a little disappointed to see that it is true when Tenzou proceeded to stare at them blankly, not quite sure how to answer the young blond man’s earlier question of _is it really true? You don’t know us, Yamato-taichou?_

Two of their faces plummet to the ground, while one remains neutral, as they exchange looks before introducing themselves. 

“Naruto?” Tenzou cocks an eyebrow, remembering the hours he had spent standing in the Great Naruto Bridge, trying to get over the gnawing feeling of familiarity at the back of his mind. Naruto’s eyes widen at the question, morphing to something eager. “Like the bridge?”

“Ohhh, yeah, the Great Naruto Bridge! Yeah!” Naruto _grins,_ as Sakura eyerolls with a bit of a huff. “That’s named after me, actually! It was from our first genin mission years ago! Right, Sakura?”

“If you ask me, that bridge should have been named equally amongst Team Seven. It’s rather unfair,” Sakura huffs, crossing her arms across her chest.

Seven.

The number seven.

It’s the number Tenzou has been fondling in the dark for. 

“That’s because I am the coolest~” Naruto laughs, throwing his arms behind his head.

“Or because calling it the Naruto-Sakura-Sasuke bridge would have been ill suited and too heavy on the tongue. It was probably wise to just name it after one idiot, as opposed to three idiots --” 

Sai gets a punch from a Sakura and a knee from Naruto that sends him toppling over the sofa and slamming past the kitchen bar stools, smacking flatly with a laugh against the island. Tenzou is on guard and ready to defend and strike if necessary, until he catches sight of Iruka bringing a hand to cover his face and swiping it down exasperatedly with a _sigh_.

The fact that Iruka doesn’t do anything means this must happen often.

“Guys, please don’t start,” Iruka warns, sounding very much like he’s said the same thing over a thousand times as he moves to help Sai up to his feet. “And you, you know better than to provoke them.” Sai simply smiles, with a hum. “Instead of you three causing trouble and breaking one of our windows and furniture again, how about you sit down and actually _help_ your taichou remember things by narrating stories while I put on some tea?”

“That’s a great idea! Hey, Yamato-taichou, on our first mission together, you actually locked us in a cage and it was mostly because it was Sakura’s fault.” Naruto plops down on the sofa with a cheeky grin, only to be met by a fist in the head.

“That is not true! You had a hand in it as well!” Sakura defends, sitting down like a civilized person.

“Actually, if I may --” Sai begins, dragging a stool forward and sitting himself beside the side table.

“You may not!” Naruto and Sakura choruses.

Tenzou sighs, shaking his head and sitting himself down. If he had locked them in a cage years ago, he’s not surprised.

He’s tempted to lock them in a cage _now_.

He’s starting to wonder how the three of them were even shinobi, let alone a cohesive team to begin with. They seemed to get on each other’s nerves and behave worse than the children Tenzou had seen bickering in the playground each time he and Iruka would walk past it coming to and from the hospital.

It's ridiculous.

*

They tell Tenzou stories that go over his head for hours. Success missions Tenzou had lead them in, parties, dinners, lunches, training sessions, inside jokes that had resulted from their time together -- none of it sound familiar to Tenzou. If anything, it makes him wonder in everything sacred how did he even stay this long being the field commander of such a disastrous team? That if he had been Cat, why would he be pulled out of ANBU to babysit three kids who chased after a traitor that had no business being pardoned to begin with?

Tenzou picks up on a few things, though. 

Like how it’s hard to miss the look of disappointment on Naruto’s face, who had grown progressively quiet and withdrawn with each story they narrate, blue eyes darting every so often towards Iruka, the weight of his silence growing more prominent when he had been the loudest to begin with.

That Sakura is always the one to fill the empty silence with another story, her eyes darting between Naruto and Iruka.

That Sai, unlike Sakura and Naruto, is off, distant, merely observant, his eyes too sharp even when his entire face is relaxed in a neutral expression. It gets clarified very early somewhere in the middle by Sai himself that he’s been trained by Root. 

Something about that word gives Tenzou pause, staring into the empty tea cup in his hands.

Root.

Tenzou remembers pillars that don't tower above, but downwards, a building that had several sublevels underground, shrouded in shadows, where the echoing sound of a walking stick connecting with the polished wooden floors made him always straighten his back, like a dog waiting to be commanded. 

No emotion. No past. No future.

There is only the mission.

Tenzou blinks.

“Don’t worry, taichou, these things take time,” Sakura says, shaking him out of his thoughts, making him look up and put the cup he’s gripping to tight back on the table before he breaks it. “It’s really important to jog your memory by asking questions, conversations and exposing yourself to things you were once into. In fact, maybe once you’re feeling better and comfortable, we should train together!” 

“That’s a great idea! What do you say, taichou? You up for something like that?” Naruto asks.

Tenzou looks at their eager faces and at Iruka’s quiet expression, how he’s keeping his gaze focused on the teacup in his hands rather than Tenzou, his jaw tight. 

“We’ll see how it goes,” Tenzou answers, not making any promises while not dismissing the offer completely.

*

Team Seven departs with a promise to visit again.

They also leave Tenzou with a headache he only hopes won’t morph into a crippling migraine. He hates it when that happens.

Tenzou is reclined on the sofa, his neck craned backwards, pillowed on the sofa’s backrest as he listens to Iruka prepare dinner. Over the course of the past almost two weeks, Tenzou has never once been disappointed by anything Iruka prepares. It’s rare that he repeats the same dish in succession. Judging from the aroma wafting from the kitchen, Iruka is preparing curry. 

It didn’t seem like something Tenzou would particularly enjoy -- too strong, too sharp in its flavor. He had been surprised by how much he had liked it. When he thanks Iruka the first time and tells him that he didn’t expect to like curry, Iruka had smiled at him in that melancholic way of his, like he’s remembering something and then thanked him for his compliment. 

Tenzou didn’t think he’d ever be excited to have curry again.

His excitement for it, however, gradually gets dampened by the headache that progressively gets worse with each passing minute. He gets irritated when the doorbell rings, Naruto’s presence and some other person radiating from the door; Tenzou isn’t in any mood to hear more stories. Not when his headache is well on its way to morphing into a migraine after all.

Tenzou pulls open the door and stares at Naruto, standing there two large paper bags in his arms, and a girl with pale, milky eyes, carrying a pet carrier.

“Ah, Yamato-taichou, welcome back,” she says, bowing politely. 

“Thank you,” Tenzou responds, pulling the door open to let them in, gesturing for the living room. 

“Oh, Naruto, did you forget something -- ah, Hinata too?” Iruka turns the stove off, putting a lid on the pot of curry, wiping his hands on his apron. 

Iruka freezes though, staring at Hinata and the pet carrier, the color draining from his face completely.

“Iruka-sensei, it’s been a while,” Hinata greets, bowing politely, a small smile on her lips. 

“We won’t be long. We’re just dropping Mango’s stuff off.” Naruto places the two large bags on the kitchen island. “There’s tea cake in there too. Hinata made it. A welcome back present for taichou.”

“Ah, Naruto-kun mentioned what happened, and how it was important to surround Yamato-taichou with things that may help his memory.” Hinata sets the pet carrier down on a bar stool. 

Tenzou spares the carrier a glance, watching as Mango, a rather plump, round, green eyed striped tabby, begins to meow a little huskily, a little too insistently from behind the carrier door. He paws at the door a few times, making a throaty rumbling sound. 

“Hinata, you didn’t have to…” Iruka says, whisper soft, still ashen face, a film of salt gathering around the corners of his eyes.

“Mango was always yours to begin with, Iruka-sensei, Yamato-taichou. He belongs with you both. So, I am returning him. I hope his presence helps,” Hinata responds, not unkind at all, her tone understanding. "It was my pleasure to care for him."

“We better get going,” Naruto announces.

“Thank you for the tea cake,” Tenzou adds, when Iruka fails to say anything. 

“Not at all, Yamato-taichou; I am glad you are back. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you with your recovery.” Hinata bows, very proper, very polite, so unlike Team Seven’s rambunctious behavior earlier.

They leave as quickly as they come.

When Tenzou shuts the door, he remains standing by the genkan, watching as Iruka carefully opens the carrier at Mango's pawing insistence, as he carefully pulls Mango out and cradles the very large cat against his chest, burying his face into his soft coat. Mango hangs over Iruka’s shoulders like a small infant, black paws sticking out, his ears pressing down to his head, as Iruka smooths a hand down his coat.

Iruka excuses himself to the guest room, taking Mango with him, unable to quite close the door behind him completely, let alone turn a light on in his rush because he comes apart within the safe confines of the guest room, his face buried in soft striped fur, Mango’s soft meow filling the space of the room, barely drowning the muffled sobs Iruka tries to swallow and smother.

Tenzou closes the door for Iruka though, showing himself out to the not quite garden surrounding their rooftop apartment, leaning over the parapet and staring out at the village. Iruka deserves his privacy, deserves a wide berth and safe space to gather himself up with as much dignity as possible. He didn't need to be looked on in pity, not from Tenzou. Not when Iruka has been anything but strong this entire time, still continues to be so strong.

(All while Tenzou remains pathetically slow, a heavy weight, a burden, serving as reminder of what he may lose.)

Tenzou doesn't know what happened there, doesn’t know if he should ask.

He doesn’t even know if it's his place to say anything. 

*

Iruka offers up the explanation willingly during dinner, his eyes puffy but otherwise behaving like he had been so far, like he didn’t just spend a good thirty minutes coming apart in the dark. 

Mango had been the house pet Tenzou had brought home one day, apparently. That the name Mango comes from the fact that every time Mango lay on his side, he looked like a large, ripe mango fruit. Tenzou had stared at the cat after that explanation, his head tilted. When Mango shifts from his plopped recline against the fridge door to lie on his side, oddly enough, the name suddenly makes sense.

“I didn’t want to give him up. But at the same time, I wasn’t caring for him well enough. So I made the decision to give him up. It was the hardest thing I had to do,” Iruka murmurs, staring at Mango who licks a paw and blinks up owlishly at them. “Naruto must have seen through it. That boy… that’s why he had Hinata adopt him, instead.”

Tenzou is left with an odd feeling of helplessness as Iruka stands and begins to clear the table, blinking rapidly, his breaths measured as he stammers out apology after apology, shaking his head as he carries everything to the sink and turns the tap on high. Yet again, he’s made Iruka uncomfortable, brought up painful memories that leaves him drawn inwards, hopeless, unwilling to show his hopelessness.

It’s so wrong. Every part in Tenzou’s body screams at how wrong this all is.

It’s just not the way it’s supposed to be.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing,” Tenzou says, ignoring the pulsing throb in his head as he picks up a dish towel and starts drying the dishes. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. I’m putting you through a rough time.”

“Please don’t. It’s not your fault,” Iruka murmurs, the words wet around the edges as he scrubs at a serving dish a little too roughly.

“It’s not yours either,” Tenzou counters, reaching forward to turn the tap off, throwing the kitchen into silence. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through. If being around me upsets you so much --”

“It doesn’t,” Iruka cuts him off, turning to look at him sharply. 

“All right, then,” Tenzou agrees, nodding slowly. Instead of continuing the topic, Tenzou switches to something else, reaching forward and turning the tap back on before picking up a soup bowl to dry. “Tomorrow is my first day of training with Stag. How bad do you think it’ll be?”

“You should most definitely skip breakfast,” Iruka snorts. 

“Well, don’t be stingy on the details, Iruka-sensei,” Tenzou grumbles.

“I’ve done it once after a bad injury. Rehabilitation training is… well, no words can justify it. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re well nourished when you get back~” 

Tenzou smirks, shaking his head. 

It’s not much, but at least Iruka sounds a little cheerful. 

*

That night, Tenzou stirs awake, his head _throbbing_ with an unspeakable ache in the middle of the night, the soft pitter patter of paws echoing in the quiet hallway. He reaches for the night stand, shaking out two of the painkillers given to him by the hospital when he had asked for something for the migraines, swallowing them dry.

It takes forever to kick in, leaving Tenzou restless under the sheets. He gets up, padding quietly to the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s his first time venturing out in the middle of the night like this, his first time seeing Iruka lying in the futon that he lays out between the television mounted on the wall stand and the coffee table, right there in the cold air of the living room, the three seater sofa obscuring him. He’s lying on his side in a fetal position, cheek pressed down on the pillow, hands tucked underneath it with Mango lying pressed against his stomach, the blanket pooled somewhere around his middle. 

Mango looks up from his sleeping position, giving Tenzou what looks like his most unimpressed expression, mouth opening widely in a bored yawn, his tail swishing left and right.

Through it all, Iruka continues to sleep, oblivious to Tenzou’s presence.

Tenzou ignores the cat, pouring himself a glass of water, draining it in one gulp before he pads back quietly to the bedroom. He only pauses when Mango follows him, a soft tail brushing against his leg, making Tenzou look back to Iruka shifting in his sleep, curling around his sweater and making a small throaty nose at the sudden lack of heat that had been previously pressed against his middle.

Tenzou looks at the cat by his feet, shooing at it with his hand to go back to its earlier perch by Iruka’s stomach. Mango purrs and ambles on towards the bedroom, hopping up the bed and settling himself right in the middle. 

Sighing a little softly, Tenzou moves towards Iruka, carefully tugging the blanket all the way up to his shoulders. Iruka doesn’t stir at the action. How very unshinobi-like. Just like the rest of him -- too loud, too open, too much personality, but no less beautiful despite his flaws. Tenzou catches himself too late, the tips of his fingers brushing silky, brown strands, so soft to the touch. 

It’s nothing more than a brief brush.

And yet it's enough to make Tenzou yank his hand back, recoiling like he’s been burned, as he stands up quickly from his crouch, putting as much distance as he can between himself and Iruka.

He has no business touching Iruka like that, tucking him into bed, or anything else.

It’s not his place.

It may just hurt Iruka more, fuel his hope, when at most, Tenzou hasn’t remembered much in the past two weeks he’s spent with Iruka, and now, Team Seven.

“He needs you more, you know? Did you really have to leave him?” Tenzou grumbles, settling himself back in bed, ignoring the way the cat decides to climb over him and settle right on top of his stomach. 

The cat really does have a bit of an attitude, doesn’t it?

What an odd ball.

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAVY REFERENCES TO BENEATH THE SUN AHHHHHHH. WHY DO I FIND ALL THIS SO CUTE WHY HOW EVEN HELP IDEK ROLE REVERSAL!?
> 
> Thank you for reading and alllll your lovely comments! I am working on this story too much, and haven't gone back to responding to your comments! But i love all of them! I am grateful to them! I love love love hearing you rant and your reactions! You can also reach me at tumblr @pinkcatharsis
> 
> Also, Mango is a real cat in Korea! [Have a look here! MANGGO IS THE CUTEST OKAY?!](https://www.instagram.com/p/B-tw0O4H3ok/?igshid=cq0rkl1lpd23&fbclid=IwAR0malJKYOnyBRSxkF-ElFuV9wXlaoCC41_CH4LzSqzVUVAs6q8Ji0uklEg)


	12. xii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Tenzou’s first day of training leaves him sore beyond comprehension -- aching joints, burning legs, barely able to raise his arm above his head. He spends all day running great distances, channeling chakra, carrying weights of over four fully grown adults. He loses count how many times he falls, collapses, trips, how his grip trembles at something as simple as a pull-up. 

It is so brutal that halfway through his training, as he falls for the umpteenth time flat on his face, Tenzou ends up throwing up the breakfast he never had. It leaves him irritated, a little angered at how weak his body truly is, when these are things that he should know, should be able to do. He’s an ANBU captain isn’t he? Buntaichou, his team had called him that morning when they had picked him up to wish him luck.

Tenzou glares at the saliva soaking into the dirt, gritting his teeth and _snarling_ at the sight of it as his fingers clenches into the dirt, fine gravel and small pebbles digging, digging, digging into his palms.

He can’t remember shit. Not his home, his origins, his fucking rank, his mask, his village. Not after a year of searching, wandering through town after town, years of fumbling in the dark, wondering why the sight of the sea calls to him, why he loses time every time he smells tea, the burst of freshly peeled orange, or he catches a whiff of ink. He couldn’t even find the man in his dreams, couldn’t even remember his name. Three years and counting and all Tenzou can come up with is the surname _Umino._

Three years and no progress.

Ten weeks in Konoha and he’s no closer in determining if this is a trick to keep him trapped or if it's real.

Gods, he’s fucking pathetic. 

Weak. Slow. He doesn’t deserve the title of buntaichou.

Dead weight, a burden, unworthy of the care, the love that Iruka tries to restrain, the dedication in his gentleness, his earnestness in caring for Tenzou. 

Fucking _pathetic._

And now, he can’t even carry a hundred kilos worth of rock across the field without falling on his fucking face. 

(This would get him lashings, would earn him _weeks_ worth of kitchen duty by Danzou if he keeps failing like this. This is unacceptable because Root knows no failure. They’re the perfect soldiers.)

Tenzou exhales slowly, his body screaming as he pushes himself up back up on his feet, adjusts the strap on his waist and continues to run, ignoring the weight of Stag’s gaze burning holes into the back of his head. 

Tenzou can’t control how his mind works, no matter how hard he forces it to try to move faster, to remember already, damnit.

But this harsh, unrepentant training, getting physically stronger — this he can control. 

This he can do. 

(He must do. He _must_.)

One day at a time. 

Endurance and patience is something he’s been very well acquainted with. It’s all he knows ever since he woke up in that small farm.

*

Iruka’s first day returning to office coincides with the first day of Tenzou’s training. 

He is greeted with crows of delight, warm wishes for the safe return of his husband, along with a towering almost impossible stack of papers on his desk and around it. The most shocking of it all, is at seven in the morning, Kakashi is sitting behind his desk, diligently leafing through a dossier, while making comments with a red pen on the margin.

“Kakashi-sama, good morning,” Iruka greets, bowing politely, like he has been since he’s been appointed as the Hokage’s assistant.

“Oh, Iruka, good morning. The financial team must be scrambling when they saw you walk in, hmm?” Kakashi doesn’t look up from what he’s writing. 

“No, I’m pretty sure they’re doing their best,” Iruka responds, walking around the accumulated work to settle down, rolling his sleeves up. 

“And how is your husband doing?” Kakashi deadpans, distant, uncaring, a lazy inquiry, so like his usual ways to everyone else.

It makes Iruka pause, his hand hovering a pencil as he looks up at Kakashi. 

Kakashi who looks tired, dark circles pressing under his eyes, his jawline pulled taut as he signs and stamps his seal on one document, closes it and reaches for the next one. Kakashi who looks disinterested, when Iruka has learned over the years that the more disinterested and aloof Kakashi is, the more interested he is, the more invested he is, the deeper he cares. Looking at Kakashi now, after everything that has happened, Iruka wonders how no one has seen through it yet, why everyone is so intimidated by the name, the title, when Kakashi’s behavior is at best, playground behavior, a defense mechanism all children develop to protect themselves when they’re vulnerable or uncertain about things.

Kakashi is a good leader, someone who cares for deeply for the village, his comrades.

But he is also a lot more obvious than he seems.

The mask does nothing -- Iruka can see beyond it now.

“All right, given the circumstances. He’s been cleared by the medics to proceed with his training. Today is his first day of rehabilitation training,” Iruka answers, stating the obvious. They are all information Kakashi already knows. 

“Has he remembered you yet?” Kakashi flips a page, circling something at the bottom.

Iruka drops his gaze at that question, not expecting the suddenness of it, the openness of how the question is thrown at him so easily like this. “No…” Iruka trails off, unsure if he should continue, a tremble going through him. 

“Maa, I suppose two weeks is a bit too soon. Give it time.” Kakashi signs the document, stamps it and sets it aside, taking another from the pile on his left. 

Iruka makes a vague agreeing noise, just because he isn’t sure what to say to that. It’s not that he disagrees. He turns his attention back to his table, picking up his pencil and bracing himself mentally for the work ahead of him, when Kakashi’s voice carries across the room.

“And you?” Kakashi asks.

“Pardon?” Iruka blinks, looking up and finding Kakashi looking at him, his face unreadable, eyes dark, eyebrows relaxed in a neutral line, jawline no longer pulled taut.

Kakashi rephrases his question. “How have you been?” 

“I…” Iruka trails off, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. 

Iruka thinks of all the times Tenzou has said the exact words he had in the past, phrases and punch lines, things like gold star worthy. He thinks of how Tenzou lies on the bed like he’s never been gone at all, the same way he has for _years_ , lying on his side, blankets tucked under his arms, one hand under his pillow. He thinks of how Tenzou gravitates to the same types of dishes he’s always favored, how he asks for seconds whenever Iruka made oyakudon, spinach gomae, and kakitamajiru, how like all those years ago, when Tenzou has spent time in Iruka’s studio apartment, he had restrained himself, even though Iruka knows he still wanted thirds. Iruka thinks of how Tenzou gravitates to the right side of their three seater sofa whenever he reads in the afternoons, how he always settles down to read exactly an hour before sunset. He would then look up to watch said sunset, still as devastatingly handsome despite his shoulder length hair that he hides behind these days, like he’s never been dead at all. Iruka thinks of how Tenzou would shake out a handful of roasted walnuts from the bag Iruka keeps on the table, how he would pop one after the other into his mouth while watching television as Iruka fussed with dinner after a grueling visit to the hospital, the same way he would when he comes home with a freshly healed injury, when he’s just decompressing at home after being away for so long. He thinks of how Tenzou seems to have found his favorite pair of sweatpants, the dark blue one with the number ten printed on the thigh, and his favorite wash worn gray t-shirt, the one with the faded Konoha symbol on the right sleeve — he gravitates towards them, always wearing it if he sees it folded and washed in the closet. He thinks of how Tenzou looks at him, how Tenzku watches him, intently, his entire focus zeroed in on Iruka when Tenzou thinks Iruka may not be looking. Sometimes, Iruka would catch something soft on Tenzou’s face through a reflection, something like wonder, reverence, how Iruka suddenly just becomes the center of Tenzou’s entire existence.

It’s the same look Tenzou would wear on his face just before he says something that would fluster Iruka. Words like _, you are so beautiful,_ or _I am lucky to have Iruka-sensei in my life,_ or if Tenzou had been away for too long, _it’s good to be back._

Iruka thinks of how he has to shake Tenzou awake, like he has been for days now, because Tenzou may be on guard around others, but that guardedness disappears when he sleeps in their bed, when he sometimes stretches an arm towards Iruka’s pillow or how like this morning, he sleeps with Mango settled like a giant, warm purring cushion on his stomach. Tenzou sleeps while trusting Iruka completely, barely stirring whenever Iruka would stray into the room. 

The body remembers. It remembers and knows and sometimes, it’s enough to fill Iruka with so much hope. 

Until Tenzou looks at him, like there are continents worth of distance between them, even when they’re merely an arm’s length away. Whatever hope Iruka had for a few precious minutes comes crashing down around his feet, shattering to several glass shards, over and over again, taking with it a chip at a time of Iruka’s strength, his will to remain strong through all of this. To not lose hope. To have faith.

Faith, like how Kakashi had when he kept looking for Tenzou. He must have. Faith, when he didn’t just execute Tenzou, when he did his best to get to the bottom of it first. 

Iruka owes Kakashi for all this, for him not burying his faith in Tenzou, for returning him to Iruka. If it weren’t for Kakashi, Iruka wouldn’t have Tenzou at all, even if Tenzou isn’t quite whole.

(He may never be.) 

Kakashi is a good senpai. Iruka can understand why Tenzou looks to him with respect. Kakashi doesn’t abandon his comrades so easily. Or he tries not to. 

Shame burns through Iruka as he stands there like a thankless fool, his knees going weak. With it comes guilt of behaving poorly, almost callously two weeks ago. 

What Iruka says instead is:

“I am grateful.” Iruka looks up at Kakashi. The next words come out softer, a little gentler, gratified. “Even if Tenzou does not regain his memory, I am just happy to see him again. And I owe all that to you, Kakashi-san. I am grateful to you. For everything you’ve done.”

Kakashi is motionless for a moment, before some sort of expression crosses his disinterested face. It’s not as guarded, not as walled up, dark pupils dropping back down to the paperwork in front of him. “You don’t owe me a thing, Iruka.” 

“But I do,” Iruka murmurs, whisper soft, his gaze falling to the ground as he bows his head, how Kakashi had been understanding, supportive of his request to put distance between himself and Academy, how he had respected that choice, how he had trusted in Iruka’s judgment to not be around the children at his weakest point. How Kakashi had given him an opportunity to continue serving, had held him tight when Iruka couldn’t hold himself together. Whether or not it stemmed out of guilt, Iruka didn’t care. He remains grateful to it all. “I was cruel to you that day. Unkind and selfish in my response, when all you’ve done is do your duty. Forgive me. Forgive my weakness. Forgive me for saying something so cold, so selfish. When what I should have said was thank you. For your understanding, your patience, your support. For _everything_.”

Iruka swallows the lump in his throat, blinks the film of salt from his eyes as he dips his head forward in a show of humbling respect. He doesn’t look up when he hears Kakashi stand, when the sound of his chair scrapes against the wooden floor.

“Iruka, there is nothing to forgive,” Kakashi says, something thickening the syllables in his throat. “It was not your fault.”

Iruka nods slowly, the action more of a gesture acknowledging Kakashi’s response rather than agreeing to it.

(It is Iruka’s fault. He should have never said yes to Kakashi picking him up at the bar, all those months ago. He should have never allowed it to continue, even if he didn’t know what the future would possibly hold. He should have never put Kakashi through any of it.)

Iruka straightens, sucking in a deep breath, giving Kakashi a small, helplessly smile. “Nor yours.”

Because what else is there to say?

*

If Iruka feels the weight of Kakashi’s stare on him as he loses himself in the two weeks worth of paperwork backlogs, Iruka says nothing more.

*

The truth is, Kakashi gets it. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, what it means to love the dead so, so much that it leaves you blind to the present.

The truth is, Kakashi too, wishes he didn’t pick up Iruka at the bar that first night. He too, wishes he hadn’t gotten so close, that he doesn’t understand what Tenzou had seen in Iruka, all those years ago, even if it were shrouded in a veil of mourning grief. He too, wishes he didn’t see what the chuunin behind the uniform had looked like, stripped down to his bare skin, how soft his hands are, how gentle they are when they brush over the fabric of Kakashi’s mask, that brief pause that always, always happens, that hesitance that makes Iruka pause as he looks up into Kakashi’s eyes for just a moment, barely two heart beats long in length, before he closes his eyes and they’re tearing each other down.

Maybe it would have made things easier if Kakashi did not know Iruka beforehand, before the death, before the grief. If he did not have Iruka’s affections as a colleague, as a friend, when he didn’t know what it’d be like to have someone -- other than a few comrades, team seven, Tenzou, Gai -- look past the rank, the name, the robes. To have someone openly eyeroll when the previous council would make unreasonable requests, to not be cowed by Kakashi’s unreasonable demands. Who else would smack paperwork down and lecture other than Iruka?

The truth is, Kakashi understands Tenzou too well now. 

He sees it all.

The good that’s worth fighting for.

And maybe before this all started, a part of Kakashi had been drawn to Iruka. All those years ago, when he found out that Tenzou had committed to the chuunin teacher. Maybe it had been curiosity, justified in reasons like, _Iruka is Tenzou and Naruto’s important person,_ or _Tenzou’s happiness is important to me._ Such reasons make Kakashi fearless, too. Makes him stand before Akatsuki, putting himself before a mad man intent on decimating Konoha and Iruka. Makes him hunt for Iruka through the thousands of displaced Konoha citizens after the great war, when Tenzou had been too tied down in duty, too afraid to look, too fatalistic, too much of a realist.

Maybe a part of Kakashi had enjoyed Iruka’s presence when he had started helping around in the Hokage’s office during the summers. Maybe it’s their afternoon tea breaks, their conversations, reminiscing of team seven’s growth and earlier years. Maybe it’s his warm company.

(Maybe it had been Iruka’s smile.)

Whatever it is, Kakashi doesn’t know.

Kakashi only knows one thing.

He wants Iruka to be happy. He wants Tenzou to be happy. More than anything else in the world.

A man like him can be at peace knowing that those that are important to him are alive and well, not buried under the rocks, or lying on the ground a hole in their chest, their chance at having a life with each other robbed because Kakashi had been too less of a man to prevent their deaths, too weak, too foolish. 

It’s probably Kakashi’s saving grace in this situation that Iruka holds no love for him. 

After all, Iruka doesn’t look at Kakashi the way he looks at Tenzou. 

*

When Iruka comes home to an empty apartment and gets to preparing dinner immediately. Tenzou comes home an hour later, quiet and withdrawn save for the polite greeting, dragging his feet and reeking of the earth, the sun, sweat, and dirt smudged and mottling all over his ANBU uniform that he had pulled on that morning, foregoing the vest and arm guard. Tenzou disappears into the bathroom and only emerges a good half an hour later, his hair damp and slicked back, clinging to the sides of his neck, his rinsed out uniform wrung out and bundled in his hands. 

Iruka doesn’t miss how Tenzou bends forward with difficulty when he pulls the door to the washing machine open. He doesn’t miss Tenzou’s sharp inhale, how rubs at his left wrist that is swollen, much like his knuckles, scrapes and minor cuts decorating his palms.

They’re all signs of rigorous training. More rigorous than most because Tenzou is ANBU.

Still, Tenzou remains silent, doing his best to betray none of the aches that Iruka knows must make him want to do nothing more than hide in a hole and never come out for a few days. Iruka knows because he’s gone through it after three months of idle rest. He can’t imagine what it must be like for Tenzou when he hasn’t had any training for three years.

Iruka serves dinner immediately, something they both eat in relative silence. 

Sitting across from Tenzou, Iruka can see faint, red gravel marks around Tenzou jaw, on the curve of his right cheek, all over the length of his forearms, the heel of his palms. Iruka knows they look worse than they actually feel; he also knows that their presence will remain for a while until Tenzou progresses with his training.

When they finish dinner, Iruka urges Tenzou to sit down and relax, leaving a cup of steaming ginger tea that Iruka had steeped earlier. He leaves it on the side table, urging Tenzou to drink it to help with the ache.

“Thank you,” Tenzou murmurs, sighing as he leans his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose, like he’s warding off a headache. “I’m sorry. I’m not pleasant company tonight.”

“Don’t be,” Iruka dismisses. “I told you, didn’t I? I know what this feels like. You may just have it worse because ANBU training would be more difficult, I’m assuming.” 

Tenzou hums softly, his hand sliding down to lie limp on his side, Iruka’s gaze following it, as Tenzou cranes his neck back against the backrest of the sofa. 

“I know it’s hard, and you must feel like an absolute wreck right now.” Iruka lowers himself slowly to the wooden coffee table, sitting exactly across from Tenzou, Iruka’s knees boxing in one of Tenzou’s knee caps as Iruka takes Tenzou’s hand gently in his, turning it palm down on his hand, as he channels enough healing chakra, the warm, gentle pulsing energy pushing against the swelling, reducing it significantly. Tenzou is as stiff as a board on the sofa, his eyes wide, alert, as he stares at Iruka get rid of the swelling completely. “Tenzou, you’re a lot stronger than you think. This training? This is nothing for you. Your strength and endurance -- I have faith in them. I can’t get rid of all the aches in your body.” Iruka turns Tenzou’s hand, the green glow brushing over the gravel marks, the small cuts, the swollen broken skin, making them all disappear, easing some of Tenzou’s discomfort. “But I can do this much for you. Just continue to do your best, okay?”

Tenzou is _staring_ at Iruka, his pupils blown wide, the tension in his arm slowly relaxing as Iruka turns his attention to his other hand.

“I’ll try…” 

*

Iruka knows it’ll get ugly before it can get better.

He knows the dark tunnel is going to be a long one before the light at the end of it can be seen. 

Tenzou’s exhaustion and lack of appetite begins to worry Iruka by the fourth day. Tenzou comes home far too tired to do much of anything other than sit still. One time, Tenzou had gone straight to bed, foregoing dinner completely, passing out after his shower. 

Iruka suggests that Tenzou starts consuming food pills and shake supplements, something calorically dense to help him with his training performance and recovery.

Tenzou agrees to it without much resistance.

*

Iruka’s worry must have been all over his face.

He catches himself clicking his pen nervously when he should be crunching numbers. He catches himself chewing his lower lip until the skin breaks, thinking of what else he can do to help Tenzou. 

He is in the middle of debating if he should just liquefy all of Tenzou’s meals for him because a week in and Tenzou still isn’t able to eat his dinner. Tenzou can’t keep relying on food pills and supplement shakes. Iruka is in the middle of debating whether or not he should take some sort of advanced training in medical jutsu, just so that he can ease more than just minor swellings, cuts. 

Iruka gets little to nothing done in his fretting worry, something he realizes with shame when he catches sight of the time. He looks at the small stack of urgent documents that he should have finished by that evening and makes a decision. Iruka gathers up what he can and begins to stuff them into his satchel. It’s not the first time he’s taken work home and it’ll give him something to do other than worry about Tenzou. 

“What are you doing?” Kakashi asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Kakashi-sama, but I wasn’t able to finish these this afternoon. I’ll work on these tonight. They need to be returned to our financial team first thing in the morning.”

“I’m sure you exaggerate as you always do with these things,” Kakashi deadpans.

“I have a lot of time in the evenings after dinner. Working on these would ease my conscience and minimize delays.” Iruka continues stuffing the dossiers into his bag. “Besides, Tenzou hasn’t been very social since his training began. He’s having a bit of a hard time, I think. Three years of being inactive would do that to anyone, I guess.”

Kakashi is quiet for a moment, before he asks a little softly, “Any luck remembering you or anything else?” 

“No,” Iruka sighs, zipping his satchel and slipping the strap around his shoulder. “But he -- he does things he used to, how he sits, how he eats, how he reads, how he sleeps with our cat, some of the phrases he uses, some of the jokes he makes. It’s all him. Sometimes I think he remembers but then he’d look at me and…” There’s nothing. It’s a blank stare. Iruka shrugs a little helplessly, his voice cracking. “W-Well one day at a time, right?”

Iruka looks away, not wanting any fear of the possibility of Tenzou not remembering at all, the ramifications of what may follow, to come rising to the surface. 

“He will remember you.” The words are strong, full of conviction.

It makes Iruka smile just a little bit; he appreciates the encouragement. “I appreciate your confidence.” 

“Iruka, I’m not saying this to make you feel better. I can’t imagine it’s easy being with your husband and him looking at you like you’re a stranger. But Tenzou is devoted to you in ways you probably don’t realize. He _will_ remember you, if not anything else.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Iruka whispers, swallowing thickly.

“Because you are the source of his strength.” Kakashi holds Iruka’s gaze firmly. “He fights strong because of you. If you can’t trust my words, then trust in Tenzou’s love for you.” 

Iruka goes still at the words, staring at Kakashi, the weight of the words, the implications of it, the hint of what had happened during the first eight weeks of Tenzou’s stay in Konoha when he had brought in, sinking into him, making his knees soft as Iruka grips the edge of his table.

Fight strong. 

Those were Iruka’s last words to Tenzou before he left for his mission all those years ago. I will, Tenzou had responded, as he had pressed his last kiss to Iruka’s temple, long and lingering.

“Thank you, Kakashi-san,” Iruka straightens, a sudden fire igniting in his veins, spreading heat and pushing the cold that had been Iruka’s companion all these years a little further away. “ _Thank you_.”

*

By the second week, Tenzou comes home not dragging his feet as much. His appetite starts to trickle in towards the end of the second week.

By the third week, Tenzou is able to ask for seconds and stay awake long enough to watch an hour or two of television, albeit distractedly. It’s sometime around the third week that Tenzou starts waking half an hour earlier than normal, just long enough to pop a few food pills and mix a protein shake before he departs at dawn. 

By the fourth week, Iruka starts to see the changes in Tenzou body. The jut of his collarbones aren’t as sharp. There is more visible muscle mass, his arms and back rippling with more strength in them. 

One night, sometime around the middle of the fourth week, Tenzou comes home with his head ducked, murmuring his greeting the way he does, always polite, always minding his manners, before he disappears in the bathroom. 

He eats dinner like a starving champion, going as far as a third serving, and leaving no left overs, something Iruka is more than pleased with because that means less leftovers and that Tenzou’s body is finally adapting to what it’s normally accustomed to. Throughout dinner, Tenzou keeps his head ducked. 

Iruka sees the reason why when he catches a glimpse of slight redness around Tenzou’s cheek once they’re done with dinner and the dishes.

“Show me your face,” Iruka instructs, watching as Tenzou goes still.

Iruka thinks that Tenzou would resist. Instead, Tenzou sighs, hesitantly reaching forward to push his long damp hair back, revealing a stretch of purple all across his right cheek, a lump forming on the line of his jaw. 

“Taijutsu,” Tenzou offers; it explains everything. He turns away to sit in the living room, picking up the steeping ginger tea from the counter, sipping along the way.

Iruka watches him sit on his favorite seat on the sofa, Mango purring and jumping up to settle beside his lap. It’s not something Iruka hasn’t seen before -- Tenzou sitting on the couch with Mango beside him, watching the glittering stretch of lights illuminating Konoha. It’s not a strange picture.

It’s also not strange for Iruka to fish the ice pack out of the freezer. It’s not strange for Iruka to wrap in a towel and reach out for Tenzou’s shoulder, fingers wrapping around the curve of muscle, as he carefully presses the ice pack to his cheek, holding it in place. It’s not strange for Tenzou’s hand to come up, their fingers brushing just the slightest bit, as Tenzou holds the ice pack in place. It’s not strange for Iruka to give Tenzou’s shoulder a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

It’s not strange at all.

Iruka has done the same thing over a thousand times in the past.

*

Tenzou keeps the ice pack in place obediently, until Iruka dims the kitchen lights and joins him in the living room.

Tenzou is obedient when Iruka sits himself across from him, the way he has been throughout the past four weeks, taking the ice pack away and carefully channel healing chakra into Tenzou’s swollen cheek, several minutes passing between them in silence, the chakra glow bathing them both in soft green light. Through it all, like every single time, Tenzou’s focus remains on Iruka, his gaze brushing over Iruka. Iruka would normally avoid holding Tenzou’s gaze when they’re this close, opting instead to stare a point on his chin, or his ear, or his hands if he’s healing scabs and cuts.

Iruka isn’t sure what makes him meet Tenzou’s gaze that night, what makes him look into the dark depths of that focus that never fails to make Iruka’s knees weak. There’s something a little soft tugging around the edge of Tenzou's handsome features. Iruka’s chakra flow falters for moment, making him shift his gaze back to Tenzou’s jaw, the dim of his chakra flaring once more.

“Bear with me, I’m almost done,” Iruka says, the apology thick in his syllables. 

“Take your time,” Tenzou responds, the words whisper-soft. A moment of silence passes before Tenzou asks. “How did we meet?”

Iruka blinks at the question, unable to stop himself from meeting Tenzou’s stare. “The first time?” Tenzou nods, a flush flooding all over Iruka's face, embarrassment washing over Iruka’s body, staining his cheeks red. “We met at the Silver Swan. It’s a bar two streets off Tea Avenue. It’s where people go if they want company for the evening.” Tenzou’s eyebrows go up in response to that. It makes the blush on Iruka’s cheeks darken. “Don’t look at me like that; don’t judge me. If you must know, you approached me first, not the other way around.”

“I’m not judging you.” Tenzou frowns. “I just find it strange.”

“Why is that strange?” Iruka counters.

“You’re a hard working citizen. Capable, dedicated, and well-liked by your former students. You’re nice, accommodating, patient. Seven years ago would make you twenty-two -- most people that age already settle, start a family. I find it strange that you’d have to go to such a place to find someone to be with when you don’t have to. You’re a beautiful,” Tenzou explains.

The chakra glow dims, everything in Iruka halting as he ducks his gaze quickly. He retracts his hand slowly, settling it on his lap. Iruka has lost count how many times he’s caught Tenzou just looking at him, reverence softening his gaze. Iruka has lost count how many times Tenzou would just wrap his arms around him, bury his face in Iruka’s neck and murmur, _you're so beautiful_ , the words peppered by soft, warm kisses that almost always segue to something hotter. Iruka has lost count how many times Tenzou has come home, dirty, grimy, dusty, pulling his gloves off just so that he can cup Iruka’s face, tuck a lock of Iruka’s hear behind an ear and press their foreheads together, his breath shuddering out of him as he grounds himself, tells himself he’s home before he whispers, _miss me_?

“Did I say something wrong?” Tenzou asks, leaning forward, his back straight, a frown wrinkling between the slight slope of his dark brows. “I apologize--”

“No, no,” Iruka shakes his head, the melancholic smile tugging at his lips as he huffs a soft smile, yearning so strong making his body ache. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Then why do you do that?” Tenzou prompts after a beat, his head tilting in question, like he’s struggling to understand something he can’t quite wrap his head around. It’s all over Tenzou’s face, an open book to read and interpret, a visible struggle that leaves him rubbing his temple with the pads of his fingers in what looks like frustration.

It leaves Iruka taken aback, because Tenzou has always tried to keep the questions at a minimum. At most, he’d ask about things in the house or the village. Very generic. Hardly personal. Iruka didn’t want his reaction to discourage Tenzou from asking the more difficult questions. 

“Do what?” Iruka asks, straightening a little more from his perch on the coffee table.

“Look away like that, like I’ve said something wrong, or something that I shouldn’t have,” Tenzou explains, shaking his head as he sweeps a hand through his hair. “I apologize. You don’t have to answer that. I’m aware that our current arrangement may not --”

“-- you didn’t say anything wrong, nor did you say anything you shouldn’t have,” Iruka quickly cuts off. “In fact, you asked me something very similar all those years ago.” Iruka effectively shuts down any further apology because it’s not right. Tenzou shouldn’t be apologizing at all. “You and I didn’t have a romantic start. You and I came to agreement I think around the third time if not the fourth time after we fucked. Two of those times you approached me in the Silver Swan. Then I offered to keep my door open for you. To come find me if you ever want to, you know…” Iruka shrugs. “It became an agreement at some point. You come to me in exchange for my discretion. We have sex, maybe a meal, but mostly sex, nothing personal, no questions asked. One day you said the same thing, with more words, fishing for answers you honestly, at the time, had no right to ask because it wasn’t part of our agreement.” 

“I see…” Tenzou nods slowly, seemingly accepting the explanation. 

“If anything, Tenzou, I should be the one apologizing, for my weakness.” Iruka picks up the ice pack from the table, fiddling with it, folding the towel, smoothing out the wrinkles. “It’s not that you’ve said or done anything wrong. It’s because you’ve said, asked or done something _right_. You may not remember it, and I’m not discouraging it at all! Far from it! But the way you move, the things you do around the house, even the clothes you pick out of the closet, how you hold Mango, how you sleep on the bed, the kind of meals you gravitate towards, some of the phrases you use -- they’re you. They’re all _you_. And I miss that.” Iruka shrugs a little helplessly, huffing a bit of an awkward smile. “I just miss you. I can’t do anything about it. And when you say things like _you’re beautiful_ , well,” Iruka chuckles, shaking his head, the flush darkening his cheeks. “You used to say that all the damn time. I used to think you were an idiot, quite frankly. I have no idea why you would say something so embarrassing. I still don’t.”

“Maybe because it’s the truth,” Tenzou responds after a moment, jolting Iruka to look up from the melting ice pack in his hands at Tenzou’s rather neutral expression. An expression that slowly melts to a bit of a smirk tugging around the corner of his lips, a flash of incisors peeking from behind Tenzou’s lips. “I believe I'd do it again. Pick you up from the bar, that is.”

Iruka grins at that, huffing a bit of a soft laugh, shaking his head with bemusement as his heart skips several hundred beats, his hand patting Tenzou’s knee before he stands up. “And I’ll always say yes.”

*

Iruka wakes up the next morning to find a small pot of vivid, crimson flowers on the kitchen island, Mango curiously sniffing at the blooms, gently pawing at it, Tenzou already gone.

It knocks the breath out of Iruka, bringing tears to his eyes, his heart skipping several beats, his stomach swooping inwards.

Red daisies.

_(Red daisies are often overlooked. They’re not as striking as an orchid, a plum blossom or even heathers or hibiscus. They all represent beauty. This one, however, reminds me of you. Beauty unknown to the possessor.)_

Iruka laughs through his tears, both hands covering his mouth as the flush and small excited, if not a little shy smile refuses to leave his face the entire day.

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, please take a moment and show some love to the artist KOKO for this wonderful commissioned YamaIru art by the lovely azuzel23. Forever reblogging and showing love for all things YamaIru!
> 
> UGH guys look at these idiots. Just look at them. I mean ugh ugh I can't with them ahhhhh. Again, heavy references to Beneath The Sun here.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and feel free to yell, spam in the comments below or via tumblr @pinkcatharsis! I love reading them! ~~I PROMISE I GIGGLE AT 95% THE PARTS YOU REACT THE STRONGEST TO BECAUSE MORE OFTEN THAN NOT, I'M REACTING THE SAME WAY AS I WRITE IT LOLS~~


	13. xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags. 
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of [When the skies go black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158714/chapters/50358800). You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though. 
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

**WARNING: VERY STRONG DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE AHEAD, GORE AND TRAUMA. TAGS PRESENT. APPROACH WITH CAUTION.**

Something subtle shifts in Iruka’s behavior after that night. 

That shift takes shape in the way Iruka’s lips curve, the softness that lingers around the edges of his lips. It’s so unlike the melancholic line that wouldn’t quite tug Iruka’s lips downwards, but doesn’t quite pull it all the way up. It’s an in-between, the same way Iruka keeps himself distant from places like their bedroom, or how he keeps the guest bedroom unoccupied -- a indeterminate state of the suspended unknown, unsure if he truly has his husband back or if he’s about to lose him all over again. 

No. This subtle. Like the first gleam of something gold and precious buried within the dirt and soot of grief, of crumbling loss, and Tenzou’s forever state of falling into a shadowy canopy.

Tenzou catches sight of it the next afternoon, tucked behind Mango’s soft, striped coat, buried under the hum of a song that Tenzou doesn’t quite recognize. It’s there in how Iruka gently mists the stems and roots of the potted red daisies, how Iruka presses his cheek against the cat that he cradles like a child over his shoulder. Tenzou isn’t sure what it is about what he’s seeing that makes his breath still for briefest moment -- if it’s the sight of a dimple dotting Iruka’s cheek, or the wide smile he directs towards the meowing cat in his arms, or if it’s the way he adjust Mango in his arms, grinning down at the judgmental pet, or if its play of the afternoon light against the mist Iruka sprays once more, scattering a spectrum of colors, peppered with the glitter of white light filtering through the spread of glass windows.

Tenzou isn’t quite sure.

He only knows that he can’t look away.

*

“Thank you for the daisies.” Iruka nudges Tenzou’s elbow, as he rinses out the last of the chopsticks and soup bowls in the sink, passing them onto Tenzou.

The words make Tenzou pause a touch too long, a bit of heat crawling up his neck and dusting over his cheeks when he realizes that Iruka is looking up at him with that -- that softness, that expression that makes Tenzou feel all kinds of uncertain, all kinds of doubtful if the warmth in his chest is him genuinely going through the emotional process of being in the same room as this person -- this kind, patient, considerate, beautiful heart broken person -- or if it’s planted.

The more time he spends around Iruka, the more he’s starting to believe it’s the former rather than the latter.

After all, isn’t he the man he’s spent years searching for?

“You’re welcome,” Tenzou responds, seconds too late, before he takes the bowls and chopsticks from Iruka’s hands to dry. “It seemed fitting. Given our conversation.”

The kitchen is thrown into silence when Iruka turns the running tap off. Just as everything in Tenzou stirs into an utter chaotic mess, leaving him mutely staring as Iruka looks up at him in a way he hasn’t done before.

“What?” Tenzou asks, clearing his throat and hanging the dish towel.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Iruka answers. “You still make the most beautiful things.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t always like that…” Tenzou murmurs, reaching up to rub the back of his head.

“Oh?” Iruka looks curious but doesn’t press on. Instead, warm fingers press against the curve of Tenzou’s elbow. “Maybe one day, you’d be comfortable enough to tell me about it.”

Iruka pats Tenzou’s elbow once and then turns away, expectations still kept incredibly low. Tenzou watches Iruka pour the freshly steeped tea into two mugs, hand one over to Tenzou before he scoops Mango in his arms to sit on the sofa, where he reclines comfortably, the weight of the cat warm on his lap, a book propped open at a page Iruka has left off the night before.

Under the reading light of their living room, Tenzou is once again unable to tear his gaze away. 

*

He would have told Iruka. About the farm, the Himura-boys and the giant watermelon he had grown after trial and error and ending up with more dilapidated trees and sunken earth than anything else.

He would have told Iruka about it all. Everything and anything. 

This isn’t something new. The realization that is.

A part of Tenzou trusts Iruka. 

Maybe he always has.

*

Tenzou reasons he doesn’t have much to lose if he chooses to surrender to whatever it is that’s between him and Konoha.

Between him and Iruka.

It’s not like he had much of a life before the farm. Not remembering makes it non existent. He is, if anything as good as dead to Konoha. He is still slow, still weak, still not recovering fast enough from his training that leaves him more winded than anything else. 

He doesn’t even know if Chiyo and Jun remain safe. 

If they’re even alive.

*

The trainings get harder and harder. The sparring sessions a lot more painful. Especially when Tenzou reaches a level where he begins sparring with three people at a time, just as the summer heat begins to creep over Konoha’s grounds. 

It gets harder to breathe with the onset of humidity. It leaves Tenzou irritable, hot, sticky, short tempered and more open to making silly mistakes when he’s beaten down and too tired to fight off the onslaught of the Gentle Fist, or dodging Raccoon’s savlo of arrows and senbons, or Stag’s kendo sparring sessions.

Tenzou is tired.

He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this anymore. 

It all seems so pointlessly stupid when he still remembers _nothing._

*

He gets told he needs more training. 

He gets told he will need another four weeks.

The day he gets told the news, Tenzou _burns_ through his chakra in a fit of uncontrolled frustration that he could no longer keep down. 

And on that day, Tenzou is brought home dangling between Stag and Raccoon, eyes dropping to the ground when he sees all the color drain from Iruka’s face at the sight of him hanging like a marionette between his teammates - pale, tired, not quite steady on his feet.

“I’m fine,” Tenzou assures Iruka, as Iruka helps him into the bathroom

“Of course you are,” Iruka says, stripping Tenzou free of his ANBU armor, gloves and boots — he tosses them all aside in a heap like they’re worthless. Iruka stops at that and turns to fill the tub, dropping a fistful of epsom salt into the water. “You are going to soak. The water is hot--”

“Iruka…”

“--And then rinse with cold water. It’ll hurt less tomorrow. I’ll work through the bruises you have once you’re done; I feel foolish telling you this but I can’t be sure if this is something you remember or perhaps you don’t remember and —“

Tenzou’s fingers wrap around Iruka’s wrist, the action silencing Iruka immediately. “I’m fine.” 

Something in Iruka’s expression makes Tenzou part his lips to add more. Maybe it’s the pinch between his brows, or the tight pull of Iruka’s jaw, the way his pupils are blown wide in what Tenzou recognizes as panic -- a little irrational, Tenzou thinks, seeing as he’s not exactly bleeding himself dry on the bathroom tiles. Maybe it’s Tenzou’s current state of slight vulnerability, the way Tenzou’s limbs hang on his frame, the pallid pallor on his person. Maybe the sight of Tenzou in Iruka’s eyes is something that brushes too close to what still remains a fresh memory of losing a loved one.

And in that moment, Tenzou almost regrets doing what he did -- losing control like that, foolishly burning through his chakra reserves in a fit like he’s some inexperienced genin, when it’s one of the first few things he was taught to balance is to exercise calculated judgment when gauging his chakra reserves. He should have never brought his shattered confidence and ego home like this.

(Home. This _is_ his home, isn’t it?)

There is no space to wallow over spilt milk -- there is only the mission. A chakra depleted soldier is as good as dead and a failed mission.

“I’m just tired,” Tenzou adds, his throat constricting when Iruka ducks his head, chewing on his lower lip for a brief second before he looks up with a smile that is pinched around the edges.

“I know,” Iruka says softly, encouragingly, not a shred of judgment on his face. “And I know you’re doing your best.”

_Am I?_

Tenzou bites his tongue, dropping his gaze to the tiles, and with great difficulty, slowly begins to peel off the rest of his uniform. 

*

Tenzou knows he is dreaming.

He knows because his feet are too small, his hands are too small. 

He knows because his heart is thundering under his chest as he walks across the tatami mats, trying to keep his body light, to not press down on the mats that would trigger a sound. He knows if he fails, if there is so much as a creak in the mats, Danzou is going to lash at his heels -- three lashes for each noise he makes. 

He doesn’t want to make a noise. He doesn’t want to go to sleep with his feet covered in open, swollen gashes -- a punishment for his failure. Because being a shinobi means being silent. Being shinobi means relying on your physical self, perfecting your physical self without relying too heavily on chakra. 

But his feet ends up pressing down too heavily, his breath catching in his throat just as click somewhere in the room counts his mistake.

Three lashes.

Another creak. Six lashes.

Nine. Twelve. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty one. Twenty four. Twenty seven. Thirty. Oh gods, thirty three. Thirty six.

Tenzou braces himself, knowing he’s failed his task. 

Danzou’s expression looks disappointed, punctuated by a put upon sigh that leaves dry lips as he nods, tapping his walking cane on the floor board once. It is Tenzou’s queue to drop to his knees, press his toes to the ground and expose the bottom of his feet like it’s an offering to a deity. Tenzou’s small, trembling palms remain flat and fingers spread on the polished floor board, as he counts each lash that comes down upon his heels with the edge of Danzou’s cane.

It cuts.

Because Danzou’s chakra control is fine, is as sharp as the edge of a short sword. 

(Tenzou remains grateful because he has the honor to be trained one on one by Danzou himself. He doesn’t get matched with a sibling, doesn’t get treated like all the other Root agents. Tenzou is special so he must remain grateful.)

The smell of blood permeates in the air as Tenzou keeps his lips sealed shut, his eyes trained on the grain of the wood, as he counts down each strike mentally until he reaches eighteen. Eighteen and his feet are soaked in crimson, seeping in between the floorboards, burning as hot as the bluest part of a flame. Tenzou says nothing as he stands, his heart jack hammering in his chest as he keeps his expression hooded, as he puts weight on the open gashes on his feet and straightens up to look up at his mentor, his leader, his father figure. He will sleep with this pain, stain his sheets red and tomorrow, before training resumes, he will be examined by Root’s medic. The wounds on his feet will be healed. They are always healed just enough for him to be able to go through the day’s training yet also serving a reminder of his fuck ups.

And that _burn_ \-- well, that Tenzou carries that forever under his skin. It becomes his motivation to be better, stronger, to never make the same mistake twice. To be able to rest without the feverish onset of a soon-to-be-infection because he needs a medic, not washed bandages and over-counter antibiotic topical creams. 

Tenzou is six and a half years old, six months after graduating form the Academy when he goes to sleep for the first time without his feet sticking to the sheets like crimson, coppery syrup.

He is seven years old when he earns the title of one of Danzou’s quietest agents in training. 

He is seven years old when Danzou deems him worthy of a reward and for the first time since Tenzou has left the Academy, he has a small, four short-legged, brown and white furry ‘friend’ who looks up at him like Tenzou is the center of its universe -- tongue out, yipping barks, a bundle of energy and always, _always_ following him around.

Tenzou names the dog Pan. 

*

He is eight when he becomes proficient with the sword and kusarigama. 

Proficient in the sense that Tenzou finally stops bumping into the balls of fire that dangles over the ceiling of the training room, blue flames licking iron, because a shinobi must be able to fight in tight spaces, must be able to use the available narrow area, master the movement of their own body all while delivering brutal blows. He stops getting burned by those spheres of hot iron, stops ruining his training clothes, stops negotiating his sleeping position just because it is too tender to sleep on scabbing, burnt skin, too raw, too new. He stops counting the hours till his visit to the medic.

He doesn’t over-power his bigger, stronger fellow Root agents. He still loses rather sorely in their weapon sparring sessions. He endures the hunger that follows the smaller meal portion that is punishment for losing in a sparring session. 

But he at least stops counting the hours till his visit to the medic in the morning.

He at least is able to sleep, on his back, no burns hindering his rest, with Pan’s weight a comfortable warm balm over his grumbling stomach.

Tenzou is nine when he finally over-powers the bigger, older boys and girls in Root. He is nine and half when he massacres a small farming village, a cover for a coup about to be staged, leaving nothing but bleeding, broken bodies carved open, spilling bile, blood and organs.

He is nine and a half when he gets thrown around by a stronger shinobi, when he learns what panic truly feels like, as he defends himself until his sword blade gets cut in half, as he dodges, jumps, and swings the chain of his kusarigama only to be caught and pinned down by a bigger jounin. A stronger jounin. His fists as big as mountains, coming down on his face, repeatedly, again, and again, cracking bone, splitting his mouth open, each punch a nail to his coffin because this mission is going to fail.

It’s going to fail, fail, fail and Tenzou cannot fucking _fail._

There is no room for failure.

Seconds before the dark claims him, in a fit of desperate, clawing, scrambling quiet rage, Tenzou lashes out with his chakra.

And discovers that he has Mokuton.

*

Tenzou knows he is dreaming because he wakes up in the dark, alone, a grotesque web of coiling tree roots surrounding him. There are bodies hanging from the roots, stringed up in a lattice high above him, decorating twisted tree tops with flesh and dripping crimson.

Tenzou is stuck to the ground, his skin thrumming with still pulsing chakra, as he _peels_ himself off it, watches his body morph like a monster -- skin and wood and leaves and vines and gods, he’s sick. Tenzou rolls over to his side, his broken face numb and all kinds of swollen as he heaves the contents of his guts on the cracked earth.

Tenzou sets everything on fire. 

He only dares to go home and report this development only after the ashes has been washed away by suiton.

*

The killing doesn’t bother Tenzou.

The lack of control over this new skill does. 

*

Tenzou’s hands are still far too small, as he spends less time doing endurance, weapon and physical training. But his chakra reserves are too big for a boy his size. 

He is dreaming because the pride that swells in his chest after he forms his first, upright small plant without sinking or cracking the earth makes him feel tall, strong, _worthy_. It leaves him feeling a little warm, especially when Danzou praises him, even more so when Pan starts yipping cheerfully at his heels.

Tenzou thinks this is happiness, as Danzou concludes his day’s training with a reward to spend the rest of the hours until lights-out in the barracks in whatever way he wants.

This must be happiness, as he reaches down and snaps a sizable stick from the small lemon tree he’s been trying to grow for weeks and indulges Pan in a game of fetch and catch.

It has to be happiness.

*

He’s still dreaming because knows there are no traces of a dog in the home he is currently sharing with Iruka. There are no pictures of Pan anywhere, or any sign of Pan’s existence.

But here, in this memory, Pan’s warm fur, doggy-kisses, and cheerful yips are real.

Here, in this memory, Pan is Tenzou’s only true friend.

*

Love is loyalty, Tenzou is told.

So when Pan follows him around, responds only to him, listens to only Tenzou and tries to defend him from things like small bugs, birds and cold, envious stares of others, Tenzou knows this loyalty.

Tenzou concludes that Pan loves him.

It’s a nice, rewarding feeling, Tenzou decides, as he sleeps with his arms wrapped around soft, smooth, white and orange-brown fur.

*

It is love that keeps Pan in his seated, obedient position, short stubby tail wagging furiously in excitement, tongue hanging out. There is love in Pan's dark brown eyes, shining under the glow of the moonlight.

Tenzou is eleven years old with the status of Jounin tucked under his belt.

He is eleven when Danzou presents him his final test. Just like all the other root agents.

He must only be loyal to the mission.

He must only be loyal to Root.

To Konoha.

There is no room in his heart for something small, something trivial, something _living_ like Pan. 

Danzou stands patient, as Tenzou pulls out the sword strapped to his back. Danzou is unmoving as Tenzou kneels on the ground, his heart jackhammering under his ribcage, his ears ringing with a scream of protest, that boy, that silly, little boy trapped within that chemical filled holding tank, that loud, begging, pleading voice telling him to not obey, to not do this, to let this small, helpless dog whose only shortcoming is loving those doggy biscuits Tenzou keeps in a small sealed box under his bed. That this creature has done nothing wrong, has planned no coup, is not a traitor, is so fucking _harmless_.

The blade comes down, cleaving and cutting off the loud pained whine-yip, Pan’s head severed cleanly from his body. It rolls a few feet away, dirt clinging to the immaculately clean, groomed fur, jaw hanging open, blood flowing past short teeth and that lolling tongue coated a lurid red as brown, blown wide eyes stares back at Tenzou unseeingly.

The ringing scream in his ear goes quiet, like Tenzou is suddenly engulfed in a vacuum, as he sinks back in the present and turns to look at Danzou, his task completed.

Danzou praises him. Says, _well done, Kinoe_. 

Then tells him to clean the mess up.

*

Tenzou burns the body, and buries the ashes under some grass.

He returns to his room, where he strips his bloodied clothes off and starts scrubbing it clean. He hangs it up to dry and then steps into the shower to wash off the dirt and blood. He isn’t upset. He isn’t sad. Tenzou isn’t anything because well, he isn’t loyal to Pan.

He is loyal to Konoha.

It’s not his fault that Pan didn’t understand the concept.

It’s not his fault that Pan chose to be loyal - to love Tenzou.

Tenzou never asked him too.

Something bubbles in Tenzou’s chest, hot and angry at the stupid choice that stupid dog ended up making. It forces his jaw open, as Tenzou balls his small fists and stuffs them into his mouth, as his lungs starts to heave, in, out, in, out, in, out -- too fast, too quick, too loud, too noisy, even with the rush of the shower is on full blast.

Stupid, idiot, dumb dog.

Tenzou pulls his fists down, unclamping teeth from skin, knuckles and flesh, sucks in a wet breath and--

*

\-- Tenzou jerks up, and awake, sloshing salty, lukewarm water all over the tiles, his hands coming up to the rim of the tub as he goes deathly still, letting his surrounding settle, his breath stuck in his chest and throat, chakra quickly clamping down as he gathers his presence, keeps it muted and hushed, barely there, his senses stretching out to analyze all and any possible threat around him.

The curious meow from the doorway makes Tenzou turn, Mango sitting on his rump by the bathroom mat, looking up at him with curious green eyes. The cat yawns, tongue and jaw stretching out just as Tenzou _allows_ himself to exhale, sputtering out salted water from his mouth and nose, palms scooping up water to wipe off the dribble of clear mucus, as he coughs and coughs out bathwater.

He had fallen asleep in his exhaustion.

Had fallen asleep remembering his training with Root, Danzou’s meticulous attention to his person, the hours he put into mastering all the skills that had forged him to the ANBU agent he is today. 

There is no picture of a dog, or the presence of a dog, or the existence of a dog because Tenzou had killed it, just like the rest of his humanity, on that summer afternoon, a little after receiving news of his jounin title. 

In the grand scheme of things, the dog didn’t matter. That dog had been a lesson, a symbol that needed erasing in order to be absolutely thorough in the field. The death of that dog had been Tenzou’s saving grace, the key and reason as to why, at such an early age, he had nothing in him that could be broken. Because he had taken care of that.

Danzou knew what he was doing.

Danzou knew how make strong, very effective soldiers.

It’s why, Tenzou realizes, as he pushes his wet hair back and gets his breathing in control, he is nothing like Kakashi. Kakashi who ‘saved’ him, Kakashi who freed him from the 'tyranny' that is Danzou’s command. Kakashi who brought him over to Sandaime. Kakashi who is his senpai, his commander in Team Ro, the man who Tenzou has the highest respect for because Kakashi is skilled, is strong, is understanding and patient.

But Kakashi is not effective.

He is not the perfect soldier, not emotionally. 

Because Kakashi loves too much, cares too much, doesn’t leave his team behind, is a hot mess with too many scars that goes beyond the topography on his body. Kakashi has too much love in his chest, ones that he hasn’t really cut out completely because he probably doesn’t know where to start. He is messy, he is needy, he has too many things tucked under the mask -- things that make him knock on Tenzou’s door, over and over and over again. Things that leaves Tenzou breathless, as their mouths tear at each other, as Kakashi pins him down on the ground, lifts his hips up, and pushes his cock into Tenzou’s body. Things that Kakashi tries to suffocate by wrapping his own hands around Tenzou’s neck, as Kakashi empties himself into Tenzou’s body, and gods, it’s good. It’s always good.

It’s never not good.

Tenzou gasps a breath, shaking in the tub, his heart thundering in his chest like it’s about to tear and crack through bone and flesh. Tenzou sits there, stilted images of blood, dead bodies, ash, fire, forests, Kakashi’s face, Danzou’s face, people he’s worked with over the years in Root, the third Hokage smoking his pipe -- they flash like a fast moving roll of film being projected behind Tenzou’s scrunched eyelids.

Disconnected and all over the place, throbbing at the back of his head that makes shaking hands release the _cracked_ edges of the tub, as Tenzou presses his hands to his ears and resorts to deep measured breaths -- one in, hold, release. One in, hold, release.

He can’t afford to be too loud, too reckless, too open like this.

That’s not right.

It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong --

“Tenzou?” 

Tenzou blinks at slightly opaque surface of the bathwater, dropping his hands down from his head as he straightens from the tub, water rushing down the length of his body as he steadily steps out of the tub and meets Iruka’s concerned gaze -- Iruka who is standing there by the doorway, Mango at his feet, clutching a folded towel too tightly, his knuckles bone white.

“Fell asleep,” Tenzou explains, before he turns his back on Iruka and steps into the shower to rinse.

*

Tenzou is too wired and too lost in his thoughts, his tongue remaining limp in his mouth even as Iruka heals the bruises in his body and all throughout dinner.

He ends up staring at the television afterwards, his tea gone cold and untouched until he notices Iruka already fast asleep on the single seater, head turned against the backrest, just as the television rolls into commercials.

Tenzou watches Iruka sleep, as he picks at his thoughts repeatedly, at the revelation of what he now knows, at Kakashi’s identity and why Kakashi apologized to him, all those weeks ago, for taking too long to find him. He knows now with crystal clarity that the reason he requires more training is not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing but because he’s been idle for almost three years. Three years can do a lot of damage to a shinobi’s physique, endurance and ability. That his hardship now is just him rebuilding himself to that peak performance that had taken _years_ to achieve. Tenzou knows it’s not going to take years to recover but it will take a while to regain his former glory in terms of ability in the field.

The realization is comforting, seemingly organic. It leaves Tenzou tired, a little defeated because the upward climb is always the hardest. And if that’s all he remembers of his past, then well, there’s really nothing Tenzou can do about it.

His past is his past. 

The only thing in his control now is the present.

The present being that Iruka’s neck is going to be incredibly sore if he continues to sleep in that position.

The present being Iruka, the man that had given him strength to stand when his body had been broken. The man he had woken up to, every day for over two years. The man who is here now, stringed along and trapped within a memory of a loved one long gone.

Tenzou doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember what he and Iruka had. If they had anything at all.

But one thing is certain.

To keep Iruka like this, to be a constant presence of hope for a memory that may not just return isn’t right.

It’s cruel.

It’s just wrong.

*

It continues to feel wrong as the weeks go by. 

It’s wrong when Iruka continues to treat Tenzou with a kindness and affection that he doesn’t quite return the same way. It leaves Tenzou feeling like he’s short changing Iruka, guilt gradually settling in his gut like a bad stomach flu as the days inch forward with not so much as a whisper, or a dream of the past to help Tenzou remember more of who he is.

It starts to feel like Tenzou is taking advantage of this love, this _loyalty,_ Iruka has for a man who is dead, a mere shell of something that was once worth loving.

It’s just wrong.

It’s all wrong.

*

And yet Tenzou can’t step away from Iruka.

He can’t deny that coming home, after so many hours of tiresome training, his body aching and his head no more clearer than it was the day before or three years ago, is the one thing he looks forward to.

He can’t deny that seeing Iruka smile as he hums that song that sounds so achingly familiar, the lyrics just at the tip Tenzou’s tongue and yet not quite forming, brings him comfort, makes him feel like he belongs within the walls of this safe haven of a home that had once been his true home.

He can’t deny the swoop of his stomach every time he catches Iruka looking at him as Iruka heals the bruises on his body, the curve of Iruka’s mouth just a little proud, peppered with warmth that makes Tenzou’s mouth go dry.

Just as much as it leaves him feeling worthless — a shit of a man who can’t even remember anything after all this time, all this fucking exposure, all this training and this surrounding of what may have been, once upon a time, his life.

Iruka deserves better than a memory.

He deserves better than this ghost of a man, a dead husband, who may just never recover at all.

Tenzou tells himself to try harder. 

He tells himself to push himself to do better, just a smidge more.

For Iruka. Or the memory of him. Or something. It’s the least Tenzou can do as thanks. 

(Iruka, after all, is the only thing that has kept him going all this time.)

*

Tenzou passes his assessment with flying colors. 

He is deemed fit for duty at the peak of Konoha’s most sweltering temperature. 

Before Kakashi reinstates him in ANBU, one afternoon as soon as Tenzou hands Kakashi the notice of clearance, he asks:

“You sure you want to be Cat again?”

“Is that where you want me to be?” Tenzou counters.

“I’m giving you the choice,” Kakashi slowly responds, eyebrows narrowing.

Are you, Tenzou _almost_ asks, as he holds Kakashi’s gaze with a mask of indifference. 

It didn’t really matter.

None of any of this matters, if Tenzou is being honest with himself. He cares little about disappointing Konoha’s Hokage with any choice he may make.

A choice for a shinobi — it’s quite laughable.

So Tenzou agrees for the sake of agreeing. ANBU resources was already used on him. It seemed rather ineffective to choose _not_ to be in ANBU _now._

“ANBU is what I was trained for,” Tenzou responds. “It’s where I should be.”

There is a frown under Kakashi’s mask that Tenzou goes all the way down the length of Kakashi’s spine. That even if the shadow of the Hokage hat provides cover, Tenzou knows that Kakashi's jaw is locked. 

He isn’t happy with Tenzou’s response.

There is hesitation when Kakashi picks up his pen and signs the scroll before him, stamping it with his seal before he rolls the scroll. 

“I have to admit, I’m not exactly confident at the moment in sending you back out so soon.”

“I trust your decision,” comes Tenzou’s diplomatic response. 

“Don’t make me laugh, Tenzou,” Kakashi scoffs, handing him the scroll. “I’ll believe that statement when you regain your memories.”

“What if I don’t?” Tenzou counters.

“Hmmm?”

“What if I don’t remember anything? What are you going to do with me?” Tenzou asks; it’s a good opportunity to somewhat manage his expectations. 

“Do with you,” Kakashi parrots in his most deadpan tone, shaking his head. “Maa, I suppose that’s something you should be figuring out. If by ‘do with you’ you mean am I going to lock you up in a dungeon somewhere, then I’m going to conclude you still remember nothing. Not Konoha, not Iruka, and not me.”

“We used fuck a lot,” Tenzou says, wondering if the Kakashi freezing in his seat is genuine or orchestrated.

(A part of him whispers that it isn’t faked. That Kakashi, if anything, has received the shock to his system. He’s probably discombobulated.)

“You were my captain for years; Team Ro, wasn’t it?” Tenzou keeps his focus narrowed on everything before him. How Kakashi shifts in his seat, straightening to look at Tenzou, his pupils jet black, every bit of gray pushed out as Kakashi looks torn between relief, shock and pride. Until Tenzou adds, “Or maybe, this memory is something you and your men planted. Who is to know, right?”

“It’s not planted,” Kakashi eventually responds, his voice thick. “You know it’s not.”

“I know nothing. I’m as good as dead,” Tenzou politely returns. “So don’t give me a choice when you and I both know it isn’t really a choice.”

“Is coming back really that terrible? Is being here, safe, within the walls you’ve spent your entire life protecting, bleeding for so bad? Is being with Iruka, the man you _chose_ to fully commit to—“

“Are those people in the farm safe?” Tenzou challenges, stopping the drivel of questions that does nothing but fuel the doubt in his gut because the truth is, no. No, it isn’t so bad at all. 

Tenzou loves being with Iruka.

Being with Iruka makes him want to try so hard. So, so damn hard to get better.

(And Iruka _is_ Konoha, isn’t he?)

“They’re fine.” Kakashi stands to his full height, shoulders squared, his gaze as cold as the peaks of Snow in the middle of the blizzard. “I suppose you’re just going to take my word for it. What other choice do you have?”

Tenzou says nothing.

There’s nothing left for him to say.

“I can’t stop you from thinking that your freedom isn’t real. I can’t force you to believe that I want nothing more that’s to have you safe, alive, whole and home. I certainly won't waste my breath trying to convince you that you are important to me, that you being alive is a relief. You’re convinced I am keeping you prisoner, then so be it. You’re an intelligent man, you know Konoha’s laws. What you choose to do should you not remember anything, is yours alone. As your hokage, I have no pressing mission at the moment that requires your skillset. So I suggest, and I say this as someone who actually gives a shit about your existence, that you use the time you have to figure out how you want to move forward if the past doesn’t come back. I suggest you review your options because Cat is always going to be here for you to claim. Go home to your husband and figure out what kind of life you want to have because you are, like it or not, Konoha. That ability of yours? It belongs to Konoha’s founding fathers.” Kakashi tips his hat down and side steps from the desk, moving to walk past. “Our lives are fleeting, Tenzou. You shouldn’t squander your second chances or the fact that you’re lucky enough to have another shot at happiness. Don’t be a brat.”

Kakashi walks away leaving Tenzou standing there, completely dressed down with more doubts than when he walked into the office earlier.

This — this isn’t strange.

There is familiarity in the leadership, the wisdom in the words, the dismissal at Tenzou’s defensive mechanism kicking up by trying to poke at the beast under the robes.

Of course Kakashi won’t take shit from him.

Not like this anyway.

“Oh and if it isn’t already clear, you’re officially Cat. With that scroll. You’re meant to keep it. As proof,” Kakashi drawls, a hint of something passive aggressive in his tone, stopping by the door. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

*

Tenzou goes home that afternoon and decides that Kakashi is right.

Whether or not he believes Kakashi is for another time to figure out. It doesn’t make his words ring any less true.

Iruka walks in, hanging his key by the hook on the door, shifting the weight of the paper bag that Tenzou knows will be their dinner.

“How long have you been home?” Iruka smiles, toeing his shoes off by the genkan and stepping into the kitchen, where he sets the grocery bag down and proceeds to tug off his forehead protector.

It makes the bangs he sweeps back come loose, dropping down and framing his beautiful face. This is Tenzou’s favorite part of seeing Iruka come home. He loves watching Iruka step out of his armor, out of the face and skin he shows to the public, his vest unzipping with one sharp tug, dark green sliding past his lean frame. 

Iruka drapes it over the a stool, bending down to pick up Mango meowing by his feet, cradling the round animal in his arms before turning his full attention on Tenzou. Rapt, focused, like nothing else beyond the walls of their home matters.

“Not long,” comes Tenzou’s vague reply as he looks at Iruka’s face, at the dimples dotting his cheeks.

Iruka says he’s making baked salmon. Says how he found a generous deal at the store. Tenzou listens to all this and thinks no, no it isn’t fair to Iruka. 

He can’t keep stringing Iruka along like this.

It’s just wrong.

*

Tenzou waits for Iruka to finish his meal, waits for him to set his chopsticks down before he broaches the topic that’s been bothering him for a long while now.

It’s not exactly the most ideal time to have a conversation about an uncertain future; no time is right for something like this.

Speaking at a different time and reaching a more sound, less cruel approach and conclusion won’t lessen the difficulty of the conversation. It won’t make Tenzou’s insecurity and lingering distrust go away. Because there’s still always that possibility that what he remembers now may truly be implanted memories.

Not that it mattered anymore.

It’s not like Tenzou’s source for existing has changed from nothing to something. He is still, if anything, as good as dead.

He might as well just rip the band-aid off.

“Iruka,” Tenzou starts, the syllables coming out tight, clipped, a little commanding. It stops sounding confident after that, his mouth opening only to shut once more when he realizes he has no clue how to even word what he wants to word. What should he say first?

“Is everything all right?” Iruka asks, straightening up immediately, a concerned frown tugging between his brows.

“I think you need to start considering and perhaps make adjustments on what you want to do with this — our current arrangement in the event that I fail to remember anything.” Tenzou starts, his throat suddenly dry. 

Iruka is quiet for a moment before he nods. “My decision on what I want to do is affected by what you want to do. If you’re asking me if I want an out from this arrangement, well you’re going to be very disappointed, then. I am exactly where I want to be.

“Iruka,” Tenzou sighs, bringing a hand up rub the back of his head. “This is your home. You can’t keep tiptoeing around it waiting for your husband to come back because what if he doesn’t? You can’t even spend more than a few minutes in your own bedroom without—“

“With reason!” Iruka protests, a flush blooming over his cheeks. 

“And is that fair?” Tenzou challenges. “Your husband is dead. It’s been three years, Iruka.”

“Please stop,” Iruka begs, shaking his head, his elbows coming up to the table, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets, as if attempting to push back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to erupt. “Gods, you and your knack for dropping the hard talk at the most — of all times —“

“What is your plan in the event I don’t regain any of my memories? Were you just going to continue like this? Sleep here in the living room, be a stranger in your own home—“

“I don’t know!” Iruka throws his hands up, snapping the response, a film of salt gleaming over his eyes. The sigh of that sends something bit twisting painfully somewhere under Tenzou’s chest, just under his rib cage. “I don’t know, Tenzou! They don’t exactly have a book in the library somewhere about what goddamn steps one should take where their husband comes back from the dead, okay? I’m winging this just as much as you are!”

They get thrown into a silence so thick that it deflates all reason and logic, capsizing Tenzou over a storm of thoughts, images of the past muddled with the present, scarred pale skin and bleeding heels, the smell of fur burning as the sight of glassy, unseeing eyes gets licked by the flames, melting and sinking into an eye socket. It leaves Tenzou ducking his head as words, garbled and distorted, the sound of Iruka’s laugh echoes somewhere in the back of his head. He sees lanterns, Iruka a vision in blue, pinning cut out award ribbons on the collars of little children, dimples on his cheeks. He sees prison bars, treetops blurring behind him as he runs. He hears the howl of a pack, paws thumping over the earth, the glow of lightning illuminating the dark, and behind it, the swirl of the sharingan eye.

He hears arguments, Sakura’s battle cries as she splits the earth, the roar of a thousand clones grinning and the rain of black ink exploding in the sky.

He remembers a bridge, a boy with a blade, Sasuke, is what they call him.

He remembers slicing throats open, snapping necks — little ones, thick ones, old ones, all probably innocent, nothing but collateral damage.

He remembers a man, begging for his life, cradling children in his arms, not the children, please not the children, he says. But Tenzou snaps their necks anyway, and before he can say anything more, the blade does it’s damage. 

Tenzou watches Iruka’s throat bleed, watches brown eyes stare up unseeingly at Tenzou, just like Pan, that stupid, loving, loyal dog.

Tenzou blinks once, the breath stuttering in his chest, as he looks up meets Iruka’s confused gaze, the cornered look replaced with something pallid.

Concern.

Even after being so callous, Iruka is still concerned.

Tenzou sweeps his hand through his hair, the motion meant to be grounding, to bring him back to the present as he thinks, regroup, strategize. Think, think, think.

The truth is, he doesn’t know what he wants to do.

He doesn’t know if he wants to be Cat or a shinobi. He doesn’t know if he even wants to go back to the farm.

What he does know is this:

He doesn’t want to string Iruka along. Doesn’t want to keep cashing in on Iruka’s affections, his generosity, his patience only to fail him. Iruka should always be happy. Real or not. Iruka’s face shouldn’t be morphed to that of grief and uncertainty. He deserves all the good in the world.

And Tenzou, is far from being any sort of good right now.

Danzou used to say something about reflecting upon the successes of their missions by going back to the beginning. That going back to where it all starts, from the moment one’s foot leaves Root’s headquarters, to the time they return, will always provide insight on something they may have missed. Something that may have lead to a mistake, an injury, a delay. The beginning is the best starting point when you encounter any doubt of any sort.

Tenzou has only one beginning he knows of. One that he can trust as his own. 

“I looked for you,” Tenzou begins, the words leaving his mouth like a breath he’s been wanting to exhale, he realizes, the moment he had set eyes upon Iruka. “I looked for you for almost a year.”

Iruka’s breath hitches audibly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I _looked_ for you.” Tenzou shrugs. “I woke up washed on a river bank by the farming lands in River’s coastal line, and you were there. You helped me on my feet and you said stand up, fight strong.”

Iruka has gone incredibly still, his eyes wide, lips pressed to a thin line as he nods a little hesitantly, a little jerkily.

“And when I could, I looked for you. I travelled everywhere, short of Snow and the far eastern islands. I looked for you not knowing who you are, what your name is, if you even existed. Obviously, I didn’t find you.” Tenzou huffs a sound of amusement, shaking his head and carding a hand through his hair once more, pressing fingers to the back of his neck. “And now that I have, thanks to your village leader, I’m not sure if you’re real, or you’re just someone wearing the face of the man who’s kept me company in my head. So I shouldn’t trust you at all, but I live with you, here, in this house.” Tenzou looks up and around, at the meticulously kept home, his gaze resting upon Mango’s licking his paw in the corner, having finished his portion of salmon. “I’m not exactly worth much as I am right now, even though I’ve been cleared to be field active.”

“That’s not true,” Iruka hoarsely counters, shaking head. “Gods, that’s not true.”

“Is it?” Tenzou looks up and holds Iruka’s gaze. “You’re an intelligent man. Tell me how, right now, am I useful? Other than draining resources that could have been utilized elsewhere.”

“Resources -- they’re your teammates!”

“I don’t know them.” Tenzou shrugs. “I remember nothing of them. It’s been three years, Iruka. I remember too little and frankly, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll remember anything more. I’m as good as dead to them. I’m dead to you. Do you really want to be around a dead man, Iruka? Is that fair to you?”

“To _me?_ ”

“This isn't a sustainable arrangement.” Tenzou concludes, gesturing between himself and Iruka with a soft sigh, bringing a hand up to rub his temple. “Maybe you’re real. I don’t know. Let’s say you are, for the sake of discussion. Is this how you want to live? In the shadow of your dead husband’s memory? Don’t you deserve to be with someone who can appreciate you more? Who _knows_ you?”

“That is my choice to make, Tenzou! And I choose to be here, with you!” Iruka argues back. “What is this really about?”

“You can’t keep choosing to be with me, because I may just not remember who you are. You have to have entertained that possibility, Iruka.” Tenzou shakes his head. 

“I have, and I’m still here,” Iruka responds, trying hard to stay calm, his fists balling over the edge of the dining table, knuckles bone white.

“I’d like to think that I would have told you to find some sort of happiness if something happened to me. Isn’t that what people say to their loved ones? Or was I the kind of husband who wanted you all to myself, cruel and greedy even if I were dead?”

“You did!” Iruka chokes, shuddering visibly as the color draining from his face, arms wrapping around his middle. “You did, Tenzou.”

“Two years and a half is a very long time, Iruka,” Tenzou points out.

“Is it?” Iruka whispers. “When an active field ANBU operative dies during a mission but no body is cremated or no proof of death is presented before the Hokage, their names on the rosters is marked with a red star. The red star will remain on the roster for a period of one year; it gives time for the Hunters to prove that they haven’t gone missing or that they haven’t betrayed Konoha. After a year, the operative’s name etched onto the memorial stone and the red star retracted, marking them as deceased. I waited for you that year, because maybe you were alive. Maybe they’d find your body. But they never did.

“And when I buried you, I wasn’t interested in anyone, I couldn’t even think of looking, not when you were there, everywhere I turned. But you valued duty more than anyone I know so I focused on that. On duty to the village. And when seeing you everywhere got out of hand, when I couldn’t sleep, couldn't think, couldn’t move past the idea that I lost you, even when it was bound to happen — I started engaging in physical relations with strangers and more recently, Kakashi-sama. I have been getting fucked by him exclusively for months now, until one day, he stopped. And that was because he found you, and he couldn’t anymore. 

“Do any of _that_ , any of _them_ mean anything to me? No. They don’t. The only thing I care for, still care for, is duty to the village. I have no interest in being happy, because I buried that happiness when they officially declared you dead. I am not interested in fostering relationships the way I did with you, not with any of those strangers and certainly not with your _Kakashi-senpai._ My choice to be here with you is mine alone. So unless you want to leave, unless you deem this arrangement something you no longer want, then I’m not leaving! I am staying! Is that it? Do you want to leave?”

Iruka sucks in a breath, his nose and cheeks blotched read, the tears streaking down his cheeks as he viciously reaches up to swipe them away, blinking rapidly and sitting up straight, putting on a brave face, acting like he didn’t just drop a bomb on Tenzou’s lap by admitting how he’s handled his grief.

The shame of it all.

“Do you think it will do you good to leave this behind, perhaps start clean without me?” Iruka asks, the words coming out whisper soft. “Because if that’s what you really want -- if that’s what you think will help you settle, will give you peace, then I -- I understand. Of course, I understand.”

Tenzou tries to imagine a space where Iruka doesn’t exist. A space where he doesn’t step into, doesn’t grace it with his warmth, his smile, to not hear Iruka hum softly as he steeps tea, or play with the cat. He tries to imagine meals not prepared by Iruka, to not hear about his day, office drivel, office gossip, chuckling under his breath and rolling his eyes at office drama. He tries to imagine not hearing Iruka’s voice anymore, to have nothing but dreams and a ghost of a man that fades away the moment Tenzou opens his eyes at the crack of dawn.

Tenzou tries to imagine Iruka with a faceless stranger, and tries to imagine him in Kakashi’s arms.

And it leaves Tenzou’s stomach churning, his dinner tossing and turning deep in his gut, acid rising up to his throat, his hands balling into fists because no, no, he doesn’t like that. 

He doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want to lose the man he’s been looking for -- real or not be damned.

Tenzou has spent weeks with Iruka, observing him, watching him and if there’s anything Tenzou’s learned, is that Iruka wears his heart on his sleeve. That he can’t lie to save his life. Not when Tenzou knows exactly where to look.

It leaves his head spinning, the _thought_ of actually -- _willingly_ letting Iruka be with someone else. It’s like falling between the ravine, his spine snapping in half when he hits the surface of the freezing water, fluid filling his nose, tossing him into panicked thinking, his heart hammering, his hands shaking and gods, he hates this. He hates not being able to draw a line between the past, the present, what’s real and what’s not and gods, Iruka -- he doesn’t want to lose Iruka, he doesn’t to stop coming home to him because Iruka is the only thing he can be sure of, now.

Right?

 _Right_?

“I don’t want to lose you,” Tenzou croaks, his voice small, choked, a sound he barely recognizes.

“And I don’t want to leave, so maybe -- maybe we can start over. You as you are, and me as I am. Not as your husband, but someone you admit to wanting to pick up at the bar, if the chance presented itself. Someone who finds you attractive, and someone who would definitely say yes,” Iruka suggests, shrugging a shoulder weakly. “Maybe, moving forward, we can both agree to stop chasing the past, to stop expecting the past to return, and just be here, now. And if after all that, if either of us think that it isn’t working, then we can part ways with confidence knowing that we gave it a genuine shot. Does that sound fair to you?”

Tenzou can’t find any fault in the suggestion. “It sounds fair.”

“Then, Tenzou-san, I would like to invite you for drinks and dinner tomorrow. Eight o’clock at The Anchor. Please try to be punctual because I don’t appreciate tardiness,” Iruka sniffs, the flush on his cheeks deepening as he wrinkles his nose.

“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” Tenzou responds, and huffs a sound of amusement, something warm curling in his chest, when Iruka throws him a pointed, almost unimpressed look.

It softens to something more earnest, something Iruka hides by standing up and picking up the empty dishes to carry to the sink, the tips of his ears a dark red, grumbling something about not wanting a shitty date, something about deserving a damn good date now that he’s attempting to damn date again.

The sound of Iruka’s grumbling, oddly enough, is the thing that grounds Tenzou, the turbulent capsizing boat in the sea finally anchoring itself despite the raging storm that continues to spin.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTRA LONG CHAPTER!
> 
> Late update. I hit a brickwall of no inspiration. Hopefully puking this chapter out means no more brickwalls. So. IS YOU OKAY? IS YOU? COZ I WANNA KNOW!!!!
> 
> Oh and if anyone cares, Pan is a corgi. [Something that looks like this cutie!!!](https://www.rover.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/running-corgi-puppy-960x540.jpg). Pan also means BREAD. Coz Pan looks like a loaf of bread!
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments or tumblr @pinkcatharsis


	14. xiv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

They establish clear boundaries the next morning. 

Moving forward, Tenzou is to continue residing in the master bedroom while Iruka will temporarily move into the guest bedroom. Tenzou helps Iruka move all his belongings – clothes, books, toiletries and whatever personal things he had in their once upon a time shared bedroom – into the guest room. They rearrange the furniture a little bit to accommodate Iruka’s small study table by the window, with Tenzou going as far as making Mango a little hanging cot by said window, right next to the study.

They commandeer new paintings and trade in the old ones. They segregate the pantry and the fridge, along with the shelves in the living room to show a clear and equal divide. They procure new sofa coverings, and new curtains to change and erase the past. Tenzou even takes down the gazebo, and in its place, he erects a flat deck with reclining wooden chairs, completely different from the original. Their garden does not turn into the eden it once must have been judging from some of the photographs, but it is green, with a hedge of mulberry bushes lining the parapet and nothing more. In the center of it, Tenzou plants a small birch tree next to the deck -- new beginnings.

Iruka had liked that. He had smiled at that. 

They also move the bird feeder under the said tree.

Whatever else gets packed and stored away, out of sight and out of mind.

It takes them several hours but it leaves them feeling less awkward and if anything a little more liberated.

It’s funny, how establishing boundaries seems to lift a weight off Iruka’s shoulders. 

There’s a bit of an ease in the way he moves, like he doesn’t have to carry the burden of supposedly being someone he should be to someone who has no recollection. The awkwardness that lingers is more shy, a little charming even; it’s there when Iruka empties a tin of canned salmon on to Mango’s lunch bowl, peeking from under the fall of his long lashes, but quickly averting and gets punctuated by a bit of a gentle flush when Tenzou catches him staring.

It’s almost cute.

From this point on, they are no longer former husband and spouse.

They become housemates.

Tenzou doesn’t know why they didn’t think of doing this earlier. It seemed like the most natural thing to do, going back to the beginning.

(Danzou, once more, proves himself to be right.)

*

The Anchor is a wall labelled with a blue and white neon sign that flickers a little oddly in some of its Katakana letters. One has to turn right upon reaching said wall and descend a stairwell where an old roughly painted black wooden door lies in waiting. Above the door is a metal railing, to prevent strangers, passerby or even drunken patrons from plummeting down the three-meter height. It had been relatively easy to find, after getting directions from Stag at the end of their sparring session earlier that day. Tenzou thinks he made a good call, asking for directions to what Stag had mentioned is a really popular place amongst shinobi. Iruka hadn’t been home by the time Tenzou had gotten back.

But then, isn’t this the point about trying the process of ‘dating’? Meeting somewhere even though they’re housemates?

Tenzou stands there by the flickering neon sign. As he looks up at the sign, all the reasons to not do this comes flooding in, as if his body chemistry just sent those very reasons a blanket invitation. This is silly, this is pointless, this is just not going to work, this is something people with memories and know what to expect would be comfortable doing, you are neither here nor there. This is out of your comfort zone. Iruka is probably doing this out of pity. When was the last time you were even on a date in the past three years? When was the last time you were even with _anyone_ , that you’d dare to even attempt this? Three years is a long time. You’re an idiot for agreeing to this.

Tenzou closes his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly through his nose as apprehension pools at the pit of his stomach, growing as the thoughts of how the night will progress unfolds in rapid images and scenarios all over Tenzou’s mind. How does he even start a conversation with Iruka? Is he even already inside? Should he approach Iruka and actually pick him up – which is another thing.

Tenzou isn’t going to lie.

The truth is, Tenzou _wants_ to pick him up.

Now that he’s actively thinking about it, here, in this corner street under a flickering bar sign, he wants to trace the seams of Iruka’s mouth with his tongue, taste sweetened black tea upon Iruka’s lips. He wants to feel Iruka’s hands on his face, down the length of his back, as he sinks into that lean body and hear the breath catch upon Iruka’s throat. He wants to touch Iruka, trace the lines of his body with his palms, with his tongue, erase whatever marks all those strangers and Kakashi had left on Iruka’s body. He wants Iruka to forget that there is an existence outside the two of them, that there is a world beyond the two of them because them, together, that is their world. That Iruka belongs to him and not those strangers, not Kakashi, how dare they, how dare _he_ \--

Tenzou inhales sharply, suddenly, as his thoughts stutter to a complete stop, his eyes snapping open and focusing unseeingly at the flickering blue and white light, his throat suddenly dry.

If he allows himself to think, his thoughts would swirl in to a vortex of foolishness, fueled by an unreasonable reality that is beyond Tenzou’s control. He didn’t choose to fall from a ravine. He didn’t choose to be away from his village. He didn’t choose to forget.

Just like Iruka didn’t choose to loose a husband. Or how he was suddenly force to cope with a loss so great that he turned to strangers and Tenzou’s senpai.

(Or so Iruka says.)

Tenzou doesn’t know how long he stands there for, dressed in dark denims and a dark button down shirt he had purchased earlier that day. He had not wanted to wear anything that formerly belonged to his old self. This is supposed to be a new start and a new starts deserves a new shirt. He didn’t want to walk into this ‘date’ and remind Iruka of a man he had once lost.

They’re supposed to start fresh. Strangers, if possible.

Tenzou sucks in a jittery, but calming breath, exhaling long through parted lips. He shakes his head once to clear it and descends the steps before he changes his mind, the world be damned. He pushes that final barricade between himself and this new start, black paint cracking and crumbling to the floor, the door squealing as if it's a warning as it yawns open and inwards.

The noise of it though, is immediately drowned out by the laughter that overpowers the karaoke machine in the corner. Conversations swirl like cigarette smoke, lingering just above the sharp smell of alcohol, hot frying oil and a bit of a sour odor that seems to come from the old, but relatively clean stained wooden floors. As Tenzou walks by the men and women scattered about in groups and pairs, he inhales the sharp plumes of alcohol and overly sweet feminine perfumes, mixing noxiously with men’s aftershave. Under it all, as he bypasses the general direction of the bathroom, is a hint of bitter sick, which thankfully is quickly masked by the smell of cocktails being transported on a tray as waiter carries them to the apparently quite rowdy table by the karaoke machine.

Tenzou finds Iruka easily, seated at the bar, nursing a glass of beer.

Iruka isn’t in his uniform, his forehead protector gone. He sits with his ankles hooked around the barstool, his eyes trained on the television screen that is playing a game-show, high ponytail bobbing when he dips his head down to pick up a few roasted nuts from the bowl in front of him, before he looks up at again in what looks like rapt interest at the game show playing.

The way Iruka is sitting, he makes himself look approachable, open to anyone who may be looking for company for the evening. He isn’t compressed or drawn inwards, his body language open, welcoming, the neutral expression on his face not quite unsociable and off-putting. Tenzou spots a few patrons watching the length of Iruka’s back, the curve of his ass on the seat. They eye with interest, gazes dark as they sip their drinks. One man in particular stands, making his way towards Iruka.

Except Tenzou’s feet moves faster and he sidles up to the empty barstool next to Iruka, beating the man to it. The stranger doesn’t retreat completely; instead, he chooses to linger somewhere on the opposite side of the bar, on a spot that provides a better vantage point to further study the beautiful face that directs no interest to his hungry gaze.

“Good evening,” Tenzou greets, leaving the decision to Iruka as to how he wants this evening to go. How this start over is supposed to progress.

“Hello, there,” Iruka returns, turning his body just so, enough that it’s clear to everyone in the bar that he is engaged with Tenzou.

Tenzou is momentarily distracted by the dimple that winks in his direction, fleeting, almost teasing in their appearance and retreat. Iruka’s reply, however, doesn’t provide Tenzou with any direction on how to proceed. He goes with something safe, generic, testing the waters a little more. “How’s the beer?”

“Craft beer; it’s one of the best in the village. I’d recommend it,” Iruka answers, punctuating the response with a sip of his beer, licking foam from his upper lip as his sets his glass down.

“I’ll take your word of it,” Tenzou responds, and signals at the bartender for a similar glass of beer. It comes in seconds, Iruka’s eyes following Tenzou’s movement with enraptured attention, as Tenzou brings the glass to his lips and samples the beer. It’s good beer. Iruka isn’t wrong at all. “It’s good. But the best in the village?”

“The best in the village,” Iruka repeats, self-assured, giving Tenzou a pointed look and holding his glass out. “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Tenzou touches his glass to Iruka and takes another sip. The silence that falls between them isn’t awkward, but it still doesn’t provide Tenzou with any hint as to how he should proceed. So he makes the choice and decides to play a game, see if Iruka will play along. “I was wondering if I could get some advice?”

“Sure,” Iruka responds, setting his glass down and directing his full attention towards Tenzou, leaning an elbow against the bar.

“I’m supposed to meet this person here for the first time. You can call it a date, I suppose. But I’m not sure how to approach him, so to speak. I wouldn’t want to come off as shallow, or give the impression that I’m only physically interested in him.”

“Are you though?” Iruka asks, tilting his head, clearly playing along. “Only physically interested in him, that is.”

The direction of the conversation eases some of Tenzou’s earlier tension, just the tiniest bit, now that he has some sort of direction to move towards, as opposed to earlier where he had been more or less asphyxiating metaphorically over the unknown and countless unfavourable possibilities. The mad drum of his heart earlier is calmer under his ribcage now, the heat that had gathered at the back of his neck cooled as he takes another sip of his, indeed, quite delicious craft beer. “Only? No. But I am interested in him physically, yes. There’s no denying that.”

“Tell me about this guy of yours,” Iruka offers, tipping his chin and acting casual, even when his gaze is glittering with entertained gratification, flecks of wondrous gold in the sea of warm, heated pools of dark amber.

Tenzou doesn’t quite remember sitting this close to Iruka in all the weeks he’s shared the same space with him. Not like this. Not to the point that he can see every fleck of gold in his eyes, the shadow of his lower lashes, the texture of his skin. Not this close where it is just once again, reaffirmed, just how truly captivating Iruka is when one truly looks and observes.

“Where do I even start?” Tenzou murmurs, _tearing_ his gaze off Iruka, leaning back and craning his neck up at the television. “He’s probably the most beautiful person in the village. He’s honest, kind, patient, sometimes a little too much of all those things to people who don’t deserve it. He’s good company. I hear he’s a good cook, too.”

“Oh?” Iruka’s dimples are visible now, as his lips press to a thin line in an attempt to suppress a smile that’s threatening to split his face, a bit of soft pink dusting over the bridge of his nose.

‘Very much so. My sources tell me that he makes excellent donburi and spinach gomae,” Tenzou confidently says, punctuating his sentence with a bob of his eyebrows. “Really good.”

“Is that so~?” Iruka huffs a soft sound of delight; it that leaves Tenzou humming in agreement. “Well, you want to know my opinion?”

“It’s why I asked,” Tenzou agrees, shrugging one shoulder, tracing lines down the glass of his beer idly with his thumb.

“I think you should approach this person with clear intentions. You should totally pick him up like you know you want to,” Iruka grins, utterly bemused and not bothering to hide his audaciousness.

It’s quite a sight to behold. The boldness under the polite and almost always put together Chuunin. Tenzou can’t help but stare again.

“Wouldn’t that come off just a touch sleazy, though?” Tenzou wrinkles his nose, more of a show and act rather than anything sincere. “That’s the last impression I want to give him.”

“No, no it wouldn’t be sleazy at all. In fact, and if you don’t mind me saying so, your special person would be a bit of a major idiot if he dares turn you down,” Iruka shakes his head, rolling his eyes once. “Sleazy would be like that person across the bar. Now that’s got creeper-vibes all over him. You are nothing like that. Please don’t be like that.”

Tenzou’s eyes drifts across the bar over the rim of his beer glass, where sure enough, the man from earlier remains attentive towards Iruka’s direction, giving Tenzou a bit of the stink eye. At least the man had manners and isn’t disturbing their conversation. “I understand, thank you. Although I’ve got one more question,” Tenzou says, clearing his throat when Iruka hums and putting on his most serious, businesslike expression. “Did it hurt?”

Iruka suddenly looks confused. “Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven?” Tenzou asks and watches as Iruka’s eyes widen, his jaw slacking in shock at the delivery of the most hideous, cheesy, pathetic pick up line one can ever say. Tenzou suddenly feels proud of himself, as he brings the beer glass to his lips for another sip, watching the flush bloom over Iruka’s cheeks, as he huffs out loud in shock, partial exasperation and partial hilarity, torn between wanting to upturn the remnants of his beer on Tenzou’s head or to start outright laughing at his face.

Tenzou ends up pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, ducking his head and suppressing his grin, a little surprised at how easy this all is, at how much he’s actually enjoying himself playing this game when just minutes ago, he had come to what he can with confidence call an emotional crisis. Tezou licks his lower lip, failing to keep a serious face any longer and when he looks up, he finds Iruka shaking his head in mirthful disbelief.

“That, no – that won’t work. Don’t say that,” Iruka huffs a laugh, mouth still hanging open, eyes wide. “What makes you even think that a line like that would work? It’s terrible!”

The flush on Iruka’s cheeks radiates all the way to the tips of his ears, easing down the column of his neck. Tenzou follows the trail of that blush, his gaze unintentionally caressing over Iruka downwards, slowly, before swooping up to find him wrinkling his nose with distaste at the corny line, but otherwise unanticipatedly looking quite shy. The game remains afoot and Iruka continues to play it, even though it’s clear how affected he is by the line that he denies would ever work in the first place.

If it didn’t work, Tenzou thinks there shouldn’t be a reason for that slight brush of timidity, tucked under all that disapproval.

“I think it’ll work,” Tenzou says softly, unable to suppress his chuckle as he empties the rest of his glass. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a lie. He truly is someone descended directly from heaven.”

“Please stop, oh my,” Iruka turns around and away from Tenzou, flushing to the roots of his hair, leaning his elbows on the bar, scrubbing a palm down the side of his very hot face. “My goodness! You are something else!”

Tenzou chuckles again, leaning an arm on the bar top and studying Iruka’s profile.

Gods is he beautiful, even in the dim lighting, amidst the noise and chaos of the bar on a weekend. Iruka’s lashes brush against his cheeks when he blinks as he tries to gather himself from the onslaught of that terrible pick up line, his upper teeth sinking down on his lower lip in a gesture that Tenzou knows is a little bit of nervous apprehension. Iruka isn’t confident either, coming to this place, starting all over. Now that the game between them is more or less seemingly reaching its end, it would seem that apprehension is back when mere seconds ago, it had been non-existent. It gives Tenzou great comfort to know that the both of them had been nervous about this. Tenzou has learned to study these microscopic gestures Iruka does when he isn’t aware, because Iruka is an open book to read when he is around the people he trusts. Or around people he willingly offers that trust with two hands. It eases the knot in Tenzou’s gut that at least he’s not the only fish out of water in this scenario. Maybe once upon a time, he had approached his partners with confidence and a straight back. But that had been a part of his life he no longer remembers.

Three years he’s been celibate; three years he hasn’t felt the touch of another human being.

Three years he hasn’t even thought of approaching anyone like this.

And now that he’s here, now that he’s staring at Iruka chewing at his lower lip, licking and chasing the after taste of malt, Tenzou can only watch, and suddenly _want_. Watch and want as those soft, now ruddy from all the nervous chewing lips roll free from being trapped by white teeth. He can only watch and want as Iruka’s throat bobs once, as he swallows the last of the beer and turns to look at Tenzou, lips falling open to say something only to close as he goes quiet, something dark, and heated suddenly surfacing in his gaze, tucked under the guarded and hardened surface of magma, but all fire underneath.

Tenzou blinks and turns his gaze away, heat pooling somewhere in his stomach. Iruka must have seen it, him openly wanting that is. Embarrassment tightens Tenzou’s stomach and chest, as he turns his gaze to the television absently.

He wasn’t lying when he said Iruka would be someone he’d pick up at a bar.

Now that they’re at the bar, he doesn’t know if he should.

A different kind of apprehension settles in his stomach. Questions swirl in his head about the logistics of such a thing. Where would they even go, if Tenzou indeed decides to pick Iruka up, who, judging by the heat that Iruka can’t seem to stop from showing in his own gaze, would probably not decline? Would it be right to take Iruka back to their share house? Would it even be acceptable to fuck him into the mattress that once belonged to Iruka and his deceased husband?

Tenzou knows he’s overthinking, over analyzing too much. He’s back exactly where he started and that had not been the point of all this. He isn’t supposed to be thinking about the past because that had been the whole point about turning their current house into neutral ground. The whole point of the furniture rearrangement, new paint job, new sofa covers and whatnot. It’s meant to represent a new beginning, clear boundaries. They even divided the kitchen pantry and the fridge. He had no reasons to over analyze when things are quite clear.

“It seems like your friend is late,” Iruka offers, his voice soft, perhaps a touch understanding. “If you’re nervous, would you like to practice with me a little while? Picking him up, that is.”

“And have you laugh at me again? No thank you,” Tenzou mutters, and suddenly grabs the edge of the bar to prevent himself from falling, when Iruka _yanks_ his bar stool towards him. Tenzou is forced to sit with his legs wider, straddling the seat rather than sitting on it when Iruka keeps his foot hooked on the leg of Tenzou’s stool, rendering his seat prisoner. Tenzou will have to slide backwards if he wants to get off the stool.

“I won’t laugh,” Iruka murmurs, leaning a little too close into Tenzou’s personal space, their knees brushing. Iruka leans up, his fingers reaching out to hook under Tenzou’s bar stool, the heat of his body rolling off him in waves, sweeping upon Tenzou’s skin as if they were Iruka’s breath. This sudden closeness, how Iruka is merely nine inches away from him, his shoulders hunched slightly because of his current posture, chin tipped to the side and exposing that curve of his neck, the length of it, down to the first two undone buttons of his collared shirt, traps Tenzou’s breath somewhere in the prison of his throat. Tenzou can’t look away, can’t stop himself from following the warm trail of skin down with his gaze. “A word of advice though. If you’re going to pick him up, you should look him in the eyes, and make use of that handsome face of yours.”

Tenzou’s gaze snaps up at that, holding Iruka’s eyes with attention as he hums in acknowledgment of those instructions, dipping his head in a slight nod. “My face, huh?”

“Hmm, your handsome, handsome face,” Iruka nods right back, inclining his chin just a little higher, so that he’s looking up more at Tenzou from his hunched position. “How about you try something like…” Iruka inhales slowly, his gaze flitting down to Tenzou’s lips before darting back up again. The motion of that, the trail of that hot gaze paints over Tenzou like a hot brush. It makes his stomach swoop inwards, a feat because he’s been under the same roof as Iruka and not once has he been on the receiving end of such attention. “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”

It takes all of Tenzou’s control to not shudder at the words, the delivery of it, the silkiness of those syllables brushing just _so_ , right over his lips, like a distant kiss he’s not meant to have, and can only witness from afar.

“All right,” he murmurs, not breaking eye contact just yet. Iruka’s pupils are blown wide, a pit of black rimmed by golden amber, his rubicund lips from all that nervous chewing plump and begging for attention that Tenzou so willingly gives as he stares at it powerlessly, wantingly. The breath in Tenzou’s lungs burns hot, hotter than fire, hotter than the sun, all trapped swirling around the sudden maddening pace of his heart. Iruka is fucking beautiful. So fucking beautiful up close like this. Beautiful when he burns like fire, a flush over his cheeks, lips crimson with and glistening with want and just begging for Tenzou’s mouth to slant over it.

Tenzou inhales slowly, taking in that heady scent of orange and cinnamon and gods, sunshine and _Iruka_. Wonderful, kind, eer so patient, beautiful Iruka. Tenzou is nothing but a moth, drawn to his fire, helpless, needy, wanting as he raises his gaze back up to Iruka’s eyes and says, as soft as he can manage, like it’s a secret offering meant only for Iruka’s ears, “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”

Iruka stands slowly, towering to his full height, his stool scraping backwards, their noses _almost_ touching with the motion. The distance between them shrinks as Iruka stands too close, far too close, his presence far too warm, his aura drowning out the chaos and noise of the bar. They stand like this like they’re the only ones in the room, Iruka’s fingers remaining still under Tenzou’s stool. It leaves Tenzou helplessly, hilariously, parched with thirst for none other than Iruka himself, his throat and mouth suddenly as dry as Wind’s desert.

“Let’s go,” Iruka whispers, the sweetness of those syllables making Tenzou slide backwards and off his chair, as if in a daze.

He doesn’t pull away when Iruka takes his hand in his, his grip firm, tight. Tenzou doesn’t pause in his steps when they step out of the bar and into the cooler atmosphere outside, their feet moving up the short flight of steps. Tenzou is mute and weak around the knees when Iruka ducks into an alley, shadowed and hidden under the building’s fire exit , his stomach now bent in concave, a flutter with a thousand butterfly wings swirling in a rapid firestorm. Before they can go any deeper, Tenzou stops walking, tugging at Iruka’s hand, both eyebrows rising in question pertaining to their destination.

He needs a moment to think, a moment to gain his bearings. It’s too fast, everything is unfolding too fast.

“An alley?” Tenzou asks, still playing the game Iruka seems interested in prolonging. Iruka looks at him with a cheeky expression, teeth peeking out from between his lips in an open show of amusement. “I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”

“You won’t,” Iruka says, laughing as he does, releasing his hold on Tenzou’s to lean against the rough brick exterior of the building, his hands tucked into his denim pockets. “Trust me, everyone has a little fantasy of getting down and dirty.”

“In public,” Tenzou turns to look at the brighter end of the alley, where the people of Tea Avenue continue on their way without paying them any attention.

“Of course,” Iruka tilts his head to the side, the back of his skull leaning on the wall. Again, it is an open invitation. Tenzou simply has to reach out and take what he wants, if he so chooses. “That’s the adventurous part. Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla kind of guy~”

“Vanilla,” Tenzou laughs, unable to quite stop himself anymore. His laugh comes out soft, a touch muted, bemused, as he crosses the distance between them, something roaring in his veins at the question. Tenzou presses a hand against the wall, right beside Iruka’s face, tilting his head in question, his other handballing into a fist and releasing it because gods, he needs to keep his head straight. He needs to think straight. That fist slips into his pocket, where it remains tucked away from sight, as he digs blunt nails into the softer but calloused flesh of his palms. “Do I seem like that? Vanilla?”

“I don’t know, I’m just guessing here,” Iruka responds, his chest heaving inwards just _once_ , long and deep.

“Would that be bad? Being vanilla? What if I want to take it slow?” Tenzou challenges, shifting his posture and leaning in just a little closer towards Iruka’s ear. “What if I want to take him out, do the things people do when they… date? Go to nice places, maybe a watch a movie at the theatre, or a concert, maybe a play? Go to dinner, the kind of places where couples go? What if I want to send him flowers, buy him the things he likes, walk him to work and maybe, if time allows it, pick him up from work, walk him home? Maybe cook something for him, pack him lunch for his long shifts at the administration building. Does that make _me_ vanilla?” Tenzou confronts, grinning when he hears Iruka’s breath hitch. “Does that make me a lesser man?”

“A lesser man...” Iruka whispers, turning his head towards Tenzou.

They’re so close like this, the space between narrowed to nothing but breath, tucked under the pale distant street lights and hanging shadows above them. Tenzou can taste the beer from earlier, can feel the brush of Iruka’s forcibly measured breaths just caressing his lips, his chin. This close, Tenzou can see the heat that’s pooling over Iruka’s face, how that red flush deepens the color of his skin, all the way down his throat, past the lines of collarbones, disappearing under the buttoned fabric.

Like this, Tenzou just has to tip forward, tilt his head just a little bit to the right and he’d have Iruka’s lips against his.

But not yet. Not until he has his answer. Not until he discloses his real intention, comes clean, puts his cards on the table, draw clear lines just as Iruka advised.

“Because I want him,” Tenzou _whispers_ , the syllables dropping an octave as Tenzou closes his eyes and leans a little further up, away from Iruka’s parted lips towards his ears, the words brushing softly, gently, promisingly. “Gods, I want him. I want to kiss him until he can’t breathe, I want his mouth on mine, until he’s clawing at me because he can’t stand up straight. I want to savor him, enjoy him, _fuck him_ , until he forgets who he is, what he is, until he forgets the past three years of being with strangers, being with his leader, of mourning. I want to fuck his mouth; I want to come in his mouth; I want to come in his body. I want him to beg for my cock, to want nothing else but my cock, to put an end to three years of having not touched,” Tenzou sucks a breath, his other hand coming up to the other side of Iruka’s head, white knuckled and tight, digging into the rough exterior of the brick wall, sharp edges cutting into flesh as he puts words to the need that’s been swirling in his stomach from the moment he sidled up that bar stool, right next to Iruka. Tenzou grits his teeth once, grinding it down as arousal spreads like slow crawling magma over rich earth, pooling between his legs, flaring upwards into his lower abdomen, making its way to his chest. “not having tasted anyone, because he’s all I seem to have wanted. I guess, you can say, I didn’t realize how much I wanted him, until tonight. While I’ve been conversing with you for advice. I should thank you, for making an honest man out of me. So? What do you think? Does that make me vanilla?”

Iruka isn’t moving, he isn’t even breathing, and Tenzou swallows the tight heat balling around the base of his throat as he ducks his head briefly, away from Iruka’s ear, his hands balling into fists as three years’ worth of suppression comes slamming into him like a tidal wave. He swallows again as he balls both his hands into even tighter fists, so tight that they _ache_ , sucking in measured breaths through his nose, forcing some form of calm from the cool night air to push all that heat down, kill it for now because no, fucking Iruka in an alley is not something he wants to start their new beginning with.

Tenzou did not want to do what his other self had done. He did not want their relationship to start so baseless, to begin with nothing but sexual ties.

He did not want to be like his past.

If he’s going to do this, then he wants to do this right.

He wants to give Iruka the treatment he deserves.

Because if anything, Iruka deserves to be treated well. To be treated _right_.

“It doesn’t make you a lesser man,” Iruka whispers, breathless, his voice thick with heat that he tries to control by swallowing and inhaling deeply from his nose. “And no, that does not make you vanilla at all. You should – you should ask him to dinner. I think – I think he’d appreciate that. Being won over like that.”

“You think so?” Tenzou asks softly, ducking further, his forehead _almost_ resting on Iruka’s shoulder.

“You’ve taken my advice so far; you’ll have to take my word on this too.” Iruka says, laughing a touch nervously, a touch shakily. “Like I said, he’d be a _fool_ to not say yes to your advances.”

“Let’s see,” Tenzou murmurs, pushing himself off the wall just a little bit, but not releasing Iruka away from being boxed in. Iruka’s eyes are darker, pooling with heat that he can’t quite reign in. The sight of how affected Iruka is by Tenzou’s honesty, is enough to shatter Tenzou’s will to not do anything so rash. It’s enough to make him almost throw caution to the wind, wrap a hand around Iruka’s throat and slam their mouths together, hold him in place and devour those lips that’s been tempting him since all this started.

(Or maybe it has from the beginning, he just didn’t pay much attention. Until now.)

“You shouldn’t… delay,” Iruka stammers, the syllables coming out unsteady. “Don’t keep him waiting longer, that is…”

“I’ll try,” Tenzou answers, closing his eyes to gather himself and push whatever arousal that still insists on flaring all the way down. When he catches some of his bearings, Tenzou looks up at a softer expression, peppered with something warmer, something wondrous and gentle. It’s all directed at him, that look and Tenzou can only stare right back, relishing in the feel of that gentleness, that steady unbending four-lettered thing that Tenzou thinks is too early for him to deserve, yet here Iruka is, just handing it to him freely. “May I walk you home? As thanks for listening to a displaced stranger?”

The smile that spreads over Iruka’s lips, in that very instant, is absolutely incandescent. “I would love that…”

*

Their walk is unusually long, leisurely, slow, as if prolonging each other’s company just a little more as they weave down the busy weekend crowd of Tea Avenue. They don’t say much to each other, walking side by side and almost in step, their elbows just shy of brushing each other. It is as if they are caught in a stupor of their earlier conversation, their mind focused on the truths that had unfolded under the shadows of a relatively abandoned alley, the words still echoing as the last bit of arousal is finally quenched by the night air and busy street.

Iruka did not know what to expect when he had proposed they start from the beginning.

He did not know how Tenzou would behave, if he would sink into his usual recluse and guarded self, something that is more familiar to him. Iruka had entertained the possibility of Tenzou realizing that his statement of I don’t want to lose you may be wrong in the end. That perhaps after coming out on this so called date that had taken a quite an interesting turn, he’d realize just how false those words are.

That he’d take it back.

Instead, Iruka had been blessed with open honesty. Of something that is more realistic when it’s coming out of printed letters from a paperback novel. Instead, he gets offered to be wooed, to be courted, to be taken out on more dates, if their game and indirect play of being complete strangers conversing at a bar is anything to go by.

Tenzou isn’t a man of many words. That hasn’t changed.

But when he talks, his words has weight.

A weight that still sits tingling somewhere in Iruka’s lower belly, as they make a turn off Tea Avenue towards the residential district, leaving behind the noise, the bright lights and weekend crowd standing in lines for restaurants, cafes, and food stands. A weight that still _burns_ , demanding release as it recalls the memory of just how much Tenzou _wants_ , wants and gods, if only Tenzou knew just what he does to Iruka when he isn’t even trying. When he’s simply making a statement. Or correcting a statement in this case.

Iruka swallows yet again, fingers lax by his side as they make another turn towards their apartment block, his mind clouded by the heat and excitement at the prospect of being taken out. At the idea of receiving flowers again because if anything, there is no one other than his students during his birthday and at end of the Academy year that would present him with flowers. He hasn’t received flowers in three years, not since he left the academy and not since Tenzou’s disappearance and ‘death’. It makes him feel a little immature, a little like one of his students with a crush, to hope to be at the receiving end of such a thing. To receive flowers from Tenzou, where it is a language in and of itself again…

Iruka can’t stop himself from blushing all of a sudden, casually tilting his gaze to the side to hide the sudden influx of embarrassment at his own thoughts.

To dress up and go out with Tenzou, to try to look good for him, to make the effort once more – Iruka doesn’t think he’s even done much of that since he and Mizuki had been together all those years ago. His marriage to Tenzou had stemmed from something casual, something already far too open and real that there hadn’t been a need to put on a show, or any sort of airs between them. There was never any need to do anything outlandish like dressing up too much when they go out. He and Tenzou had been so casual with each other’s company in public, so very down to earth, that anything goes. Tenzou had gifted him yukatas over the years, hairpins and a few jewelries, things that Iruka has worn on occasion several times, things that Tenzou would then later peel off him or pull off him as if he were a present, just for his pleasure – but to actually dress up purposely for Tenzou? To set a grooming routine _just_ for him?

Iruka can’t recall a time.

It makes him wonder why he didn’t, all those years ago.

They reach the bottom stairwell of their apartment, Tenzou falling back a step and leaving Iruka to lead the way. They climb in amicable silence, remaining wordless even as Iruka takes his keys out and unlocks the door. They are still quiet even after they step out of their shoes and past the genkan, where the game of escorting Iruka ‘home’ continues until Iruka reaches the door of the guest bedroom.

“Thank you,” Iruka says, suddenly breathless all of a sudden, his heart jackhammering under his ribcage as he looks at Tenzou whose focus is solely on him. “For walking me home.”

“It’s my pleasure, and my thanks for your time, and advice,” Tenzou softly responds, dipping his head and looking so incredibly charming when he tries to suppress a smile that fails anyway. Iruka’s knees go a little soft, as Tenzou’s incisors peek out as he looks back up at Iruka. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Iruka says, taking a step back and leaning against his door, his hand coming up behind his back to turn the door knob to the guest room.

Tenzou takes a step back, his eyes lingering on Iruka, as Iruka pushes the door open and steps into the confines of his room, their eyes not leaving each other until Iruka slides the door shut.

It leaves him exhaling shakily, now that there is barrier between himself and Tenzou, his breath coming out into his palm that he clamps it to his mouth in what seems to be nervous excitement. It leaves his toes curling into the rug by the door, digging into the fibers as he leans heavily against the door, unable to squash the grin that wants to rip across his face.

Iruka doesn’t know how long he stands there, feeling incredibly young all of a sudden, so very nervous about the future that he didn’t think he’d ever be excited for again. Not since the funeral. Not since the news that Tenzou had gone missing. Certainly not since Tenzou had proposed to him in the intensive care unit, with two of his best friends lying unconscious.

Iruka brings his hand down, opening and closing his fist in an attempt to release some of the adrenaline that is flooding his veins, making his heart race as if he had just cut across the obstacle training course in the Forest of Death. He stares ahead of him unseeingly, trying to imagine what Tenzou would do next, what tomorrow would bring.

And nearly jumps out of his skin with a squawk he barely suppresses when a knock echoes against the door.

Iruka has to school himself into some sort of proper decorum, swiping his palms over his face, hoping to erase the foolish, excited if not out right dopey smile and look calm. Collected. Proper.

He opens the door and finds Tenzou standing there, hands behind his back, gaze lifting from the ground, a hint of a smile tucked under the calm, composed expression on his face. It’s a little unfair, Iruka thinks, how put together Tenzou seems. It’s a little unfair that between the two of them, Tenzou seems to have his facilities under control.

(Then again, Tenzou always has. It’s one of the things Iruka had been so attracted to.)

“Hi,” Tenzou greets, looking just a pinch sheepish at the greeting.

“Hello,” Iruka greets back, swallowing past the mad race of his heart. He pulls the door open wider, leaning his shoulder against the door frame.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Tenzou says, looking a touch apologetic. Then the calmness breaks, when Tenzou brings a hand to rub the back of his head.

It’s so incredibly endearing that releases a flurry of butterflies flapping around excitedly in Iruka’s stomach. Iruka shakes his head, failing in trying to suppress his smile any more. “No, no, not at all. I wasn’t – I mean I wasn’t doing anything. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was wondering if you’d – I mean…” Tenzou trails off, his lips pressing to a thin line before he inhales slowly and tries again. “I was wondering if perhaps tomorrow, if you’re free, you’d allow me to take you dinner. I was thinking perhaps sushi at Umi’s, if that is something you’d enjoy?”

Iruka’s knees goes soft in an instant, his entire weight supported by the doorframe. It had been a wise decision to lean against it. He isn’t even sure why being asked out like this has such a huge impact on his person. It’s not like Iruka’s never been on a date. It’s just been a while. “I think I would enjoy that, yes. Absolutely.”

“May I pick you up? Tomorrow at seven?” Tenzou asks, chewing on his lower lip for just a moment, like he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“I’m looking forward to it, Tenzou,” Iruka answers, sincere and warm, the words coming out whisper soft, almost lost to the rather insistent meow of their house pet at the end of the hallway.

“As am I. It’s a date then,” Tenzou murmurs, dropping his gaze, a bit of a charming flush glazing over his cheekbones. It’s rare for Tenzou to blush like this, it’s rare for him to get so openly embarrassed like this. Or perhaps it’s just been so long that such a thing, after weeks of living under the same roof, this open show of expression seems new. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Iruka.”

“Yes.” Iruka grins, nodding and carefully pushing himself off the door frame. “Tomorrow. Good night, Tenzou.”

“Good night, Iruka,” Tenzou says, turning around and scooping up Mango from the end of the hallway.

As he rounds the corner, Iruka doesn’t miss the unabashed grin he directs at the cat.

*

Their date comes sooner than expected.

Time seems inconsequential when all Iruka can think of all day, as he putters through the house doing some clean up and laundry is how their date is going to unfold over a delicious meal. He spends half the morning day dreaming while staring unseeingly at the television playing reruns, a forgotten pile of dried laundry by his feet. It takes all morning to fold what should have taken minutes.

Iruka works up his own nerves as time flies by so fast. One minute it’s ten in the morning, the next it’s already five in the evening, with Tenzou stepping into the apartment after a training session with his ANBU team, looking as per usual when he goes on these trainings, dusty, grimy with his face smudged in dirt.

“How was your training?” Iruka asks from the sofa, Mango hopping off his lap and clambering over to Tenzou’s ankles, tail swishing over his knee caps.

“It’s nice to not always be on the ground,” Tenzou candidly responds, sighing a little as he bends over with a bit of wince, rubbing fingers over Mango’s head. “How was your day?”

“Too short,” Iruka admits, and stands. He had two hours to get ready; he might as well start now. “There are some sandwiches in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” Tenzou nods, giving Mango a final pat on the head, ambling his way towards the bedroom, silent and not looking over his shoulder.

When the door clicks, Iruka gives Mango a look.

“Well, you’re on your own for the next few hours,” Iruka mutters, retreating to his own room to figure out exactly how to get ready for the first proper date he’s had in years.

*

It turns out, Iruka ends up being ready within the hour, even after he’s gone through an exaggerated routine of applying a hair mask that he hasn’t done in a while, drying his hair, giving himself a thorough scrub down, a close shave and moisturizing his knees and elbows. He ends up dressed and lying on his back on the guest bed, encased in dark olive pants and tucked button down white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He had tried to waste time in choosing a belt, only to end up going with a light brown leather one. He had also tried to waste time in combing his hair, only to end up putting it up in a neat high bun. He had looked so put together, a little too picture perfect that it had left Iruka blushing to the roots of his hair.

As a result, he rumples the top of his head, freeing his bangs from their sleek hold.

It does wonders to mar the perfect, neat look.

But it does nothing to make waiting for an hour go by any faster.

Iruka finds himself counting along the seconds hand of the wall clock, staring at the shadows of the ceiling and keeping very still, not wanting to rumble his shirt further. The moment seven strikes on the clock, he stands up, taking his time to examine himself once more on the mirror, smoothing the fabric of his pants and shirt down, patting the high bun on the back of his skull. He debates applying more aftershave but then decides against it.

He didn’t want to seem like he’s trying _too_ hard.

He didn’t want to put Tenzou off.

At exactly 7:02, Iruka steps out of the bedroom, and finds Tenzou standing by the living room balcony, his back turned to Iruka. The moment Iruka’s bedroom door clicks shut, Tenzou turns and Iruka has to tell himself to _breathe_.

Dressed in pressed dark gray pants, a brown belt and rich navy blue tucked shirt, Tenzou is a vision to behold. He cut his hair shorter, the sides shaved tapered off, the stubble that had lined his jaw earlier on the day gone, replaced by smooth clean shaven skin. Iruka has to wonder if Tenzou had gone downstairs to the barber around the corner after coming home. He had been so worried fussing about himself that he didn’t sense Tenzou stepping out earlier. Tucked in Tenzou’s palm is a small potted plant, tied with a white bow, the small wooden pot filled with yellow tulips.

Hope.

Tenzou is holding hope – small and oh so modest in its blooming size - in his hand.

Hope that he hands over to Iruka, a ghost of a shy smile tugging around the corners of Tenzou’s lips. Hope that Iruka takes with fingers that shake just the tiniest bit, fingers that trace the soft petals

“Thank you,” Iruka murmurs, something expanding outwards in his chest, as he clears his throat of the ball of emotion that somehow chooses to wedge itself in his throat now of all times.

“You ready?” Tenzou asks, as Iruka carefully sets the small pot by the window, right next to the red daisies.

“Yes,” Iruka says, nodding and inhaling a breath that after so long, tastes incredibly sweet. “Lead the way.”

*

Dinner, turns out to be a casual affair, with them seated across each other. Whatever nervousness or uncertainty there may be evaporates once Tenzou admits that he had to ask for advice from his teammates as to what’s a good place to take someone on a first date. Iruka ends up laughing when Tenzou tells him that it had sparked quite a heated debate between his teammates, the same teammates that had been so hard on him during his training, the same teammates that have a high mission and kill count under their belt. Iruka cannot stop the mirthful tears in between their meals when Tenzou tells him that they had frowned at his person, judged him a little bit, even.

“Cut your hair, Taichou, she said,” Tenzou sighing. “Please do not appear in your first date in forever looking homeless.”

“Homeless!” Iruka guffaws behind a hand, almost choking on a grain of rice. “She _dared?_ ”

“She dared,” Tenzou sighs, a put upon expression on his face. “I don’t know Iruka, did I really look homeless? A lot of people wear long hair.”

“Well,” Iruka sets his chopsticks down, picking up his sake cup. “Maybe it’s because long hair, especially until your shoulder tends to age you down a little bit. So you do look a little younger. And, don’t get upset but every time you do come back from training, you do look a little…” Iruka tries to think of a polite word.

“Beaten down? Defeated? Wanting to die because every bone and muscle fiber in my body hurts?” Tenzou offers.

“I think I will go homeless,” Iruka chuckles, grinning when Tenzou’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. “I concur on her assessment. She’s right. With the hair cut, you do look your age.”

“Older?”

“Wiser; the hair cut does make a man, so they say. In your case, it’s very true. I’m getting a lot of buntaichou vibes from this.” Iruka waves his open palm in the air, circling it a little bit in Tenzou’s direction. “This really does suit you best.”

“I’m glad, then. Glad that I withstood the bickering of my team. That it paid off,” Tenzou sighs _,_ rolling his eyes just briefly but not unkindly. The amused look does not come off his face.

“Why, _buntaichou_ , did you go through all this effort just to look pretty for me?” Iruka teases, grinning from ear to ear and feeling just a touch bit special that Tenzou had gone through the effort.

“Wouldn’t want you to be able to take your eyes off me, so I suppose yes, I did,” Tenzou flicks his gaze up from his food, pinning Iruka with a focus. “Did it work?”

Iruka tries not to look past Tenzou’s throat, past the collar of the undone top button of his shirt. Instead, he focuses on Tenzou’s gaze, dark and eerily focused on just him, like none of the other patrons in the busy restaurant exists.

“I’d say so yes,” Iruka manages to answer calmly, mentally patting himself in the shoulder even though his entire face heats up like a furnace.

“Good.” Tenzou nods, picking up a piece of sushi from the platter in front of them. “Because I’d say that you hogging the bathroom for an hour this evening worked too. You’re gorgeous.”

Iruka did not know if he wants to make a noise of indignation, sink to the ground in embarrassment or just continue to flush to the roots of his hair.

Tenzou’s smile though, seems to have been worth his mild ‘discomfort’ at being teased.

*

They take a walk down Tea Avenue towards the square, bypassing the small clock tower and crossing the bridge towards the public park. Tenzou buys them both ice cream from a street vendor that they eat while walking. With spring nearing its end and paving the way for the onslaught of what might be a scorching summer, the trees sway in full green bloom, peppered by yellow and white floral that would soon change to sweetened summer peaches, mangoes and apples.

They seat themselves on a bench overlooking the river, comfortable in each other’s company as Iruka tells Tenzou a story of how he used to come to this river and play, how he used to hide in the same river after terrorizing the Sandaime’s security detail with some sort of vandalism in the administration building as a child. Colorful paint, glitter, paper cut outs, exploding balloons, Iruka had left no corner unturned, apparently.

“You were a little rascal, weren’t you?” Tenzou huffs, disbelief in his tone, something Iruka laughs at with an embarrassed flush. “Were you ever caught?”

“A few times. But I got better with each attempt,” Iruka says, reaching up to rub the corner of his scar. “Sandaime never discouraged it. I think it kept his security detail busy and on their toes!”

“You are terrible,” Tenzou chuckles, shaking his head as he bites into his ice cream cone. “I would have never pegged you to be so unruly, Iruka. You don’t seem like the type. You are always quite put together. Strict even.”

“Ah, first and most important less in being a shinobi; never underestimate your opponent~” Iruka points, grinning before he turns to face the river.

“My bad,” Tenzou concedes, lifting a hand up in surrender.

A comfortable silence falls between them, even after they finish the last of their ice cream, the cone wrapper crumpled and tossed into the nearby trash.

“I had a really good time tonight, Tenzou,” Iruka says softly, turning to look up at the night sky. “It’s been a very, _very_ long time since I’ve done something like this.”

“Did you not do these things with your husband?” Tenzou asks, after a long pause, like he’s unsure if he wants to answer.

“That’s not it. We did but it – I’m not sure how to explain it. We were so used to being so open to each other that there just was no need to put in so much effort like this. I’m not saying there was no romance between us, quite the contrary. But the effort to dress up, to look good – not that my husband didn’t look good. He did. Gods, he did.” Iruka ducks his head, shaking it. “I probably sound silly. I probably am not making a lot of sense. But this is nice. I like this. Before my husband, I – well, the only serious real relationship I had ended up with the guy being a traitor. So that tells you a lot about his character, huh?”

“I think you make sense,” Tenzou answers after a quiet pause. “Don’t feel bad. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve only been alive three years. So, this is my only date. It’s comforting to know that you enjoyed it.”

“I did. I do, I am,” Iruka admits, turning to look at Tenzou, reaching out to take his hand, lacing their fingers together and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. For all this. For your effort. And withstanding your teammates, of course.”

Tenzou looks at him searchingly, before he seems to find what he’s looking for and smiles. “You’re welcome…”

*

Tenzou walks Iruka home, all the way to the front of his bedroom door where Iruka leans with his back against the door, a pause hanging between them.

“Would you—“

“Will you—“

They chorus, both of them stopping midsentence and turning their gazes away, chuckling in amusement. Iruka gestures for Tenzou to continue.

“Will you accompany me to the Spring Festival a week and a half from now?” Tenzou asks, his hands coming behind his back, standing like a good soldier on parade rest. The sheepishness wins over, Tenzou reaching back to rub the back of his skull, like he’s suddenly unsure despite a successful date.

“I would love to,” Iruka answers, sincere and suddenly excited all over again.

“Good,” Tenzou nods, pauses and nods again. “I’ll pick you up, I guess. We can go on a Saturday. I hear there will be fireworks…”

“Saturday sounds perfect,” Iruka agrees, nodding because he isn’t sure what else to say. “I’m looking forward to it. Yukatas?”

“I would love to see you dressed in one,” Tenzou admits.

“Then I shall, for you,” Iruka grins.

Tenzou takes a step forward, and another, close enough for them to be toe toe, nearly chest to chest, one hand coming up to curl around the curve of Iruka’s shoulder. Iruka holds his breath, tipping his chin just a little bit upwards, to look at the dark gaze that’s sweeping over his body, at the glimmer of black mirrors, his flushed reflection on the surface of Tenzou’s eyes. Tenzou leans over, his lips brushing over Iruka’s cheek, gentle, soft, warm, setting Iruka’s veins on fire and his heart threatening to explode from his ribs. The kiss lingers, softer in its goodbye, so unlike the last time Tenzou had kissed Iruka’s temple, where it had been desperate, maybe even upset that the space between them is going to grow again.

This one is nothing like that.

This is hope, uncertainty, courage to move forward. This is Tenzou being open, being vulnerable, trying to want something for himself without the baggage of his past. This is Tenzou wanting to find his footing in Iruka’s world, wanting to be a part of Iruka’s world, as he is, a man with nothing, no memories, not past and an unknown future.

“Good night,” Tenzou murmurs softly against Iruka’s cheek, warm and hot and just a touch jittery.

Iruka closes his eyes and brings a hand up to squeeze and hold on to Tenzou’s wrist, just to prolong this closeness a little longer. Tenzou doesn’t step away, he doesn’t put distance between them just yet. Iruka turns his cheek just a little bit, so that Tenzou’s lips are on the corners of his own lips, warm and soft and sweetened like the ice cream they shared that evening. Chocolate and vanilla, bitter and sweet, and the scent of aftershave, of musk and cedar trees flooding Iruka’s senses, making his eyes close as he murmurs, as quiet as a breath, “Good night, Tenzou…”

*

Falling in love, as much as Iruka hates it, comes to him rather easily.

Falling in love is like getting hit by a steam train and yet not getting wounded. It is being sick to the pits of his stomach, soaring high in the sky one minute and crashing down the next. It’s starving and being thirsty, yet not really able to eat or drink. It is finally ripping free of the winter that had found a home under Iruka’s skin, yet burning hot like the sun, scorching as if a supernova lies in the center of his chest, full of hope, enthusiasm, excitement, all these things that leaves Iruka wiped out and counting the days to the spring festival.

It is not being able to wipe the smile from his face when he steps into the office that working week, not even finding it himself to be upset when the runners does not obey his instructions or if the Hokage delays the paperwork in favor of reading his orange book.

Love, Iruka knows, appears without any warning signs.

Love is him coming home and meeting Tenzou’s gaze, holding it for a while, and being the recipient of his smile. Love is inevitable. It is falling into it from the peak of the Hokage monuments, free falling, with no safety line.

Love is Tenzou who continues to try so hard, who leaves him red and yellow roses next to a pot full of freshly steeped tea every morning (happiness and excitement, Iruka reads). Love is a delivery boy appearing at lunch time, with a container of Ichiraku’s special ramen flavor, the one Tenzou remembers Iruka always prefers for himself, during the times he brings ramen home. Love is a cup of tea and an iced cupcake, or a swirl of cinnamon pastry in the afternoons, sweet and warm.

Love is Tenzou saying, welcome back, when he happens to be home before Iruka.

Love is Tenzou attempting to scrape a burnt salmon from a frying pan and later on apologizing. I had followed the recipe, Tenzou reasons, looking sorely disappointed.

Love is Tenzou saying yes, when Iruka asks if he wants to join him at the izakaya instead and maybe catch the last movie showing in the theater.

Love is Tenzou.

(Not Umino Tenzou. Just Tenzou.)

Iruka had been powerless to love back then.

It shouldn’t surprised him that he remains powerless to love now.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but is Tenzou hot or not? I mean HOLY SHIT TENZOU wth where did that come from? What are you doing? That angel joke is thanks to Rikacain. Among other things because she's always listening to my garbage rambling.
> 
> But yes, WTF?!
> 
> Also, hay, I am writing this again. I don't even know who is reading this anymore it's been such a long time. But I love ya'll, I appreciate ya'll and your comments give me life!
> 
> Mwah!


	15. xv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Mind the tags.
> 
> Diverges from chapter 1 of When the skies go black. You do have to read part 1, 2, 3 to understand this, though.
> 
> And no, don't worry, no one is dead. This is NOT a deathfic.

Kakashi notices it immediately, the change in Iruka.

It is like Iruka is abuzz with unseen electricity, his mind filled with an explosion of possibilities, of possibilities that hadn’t been there the past three years. It is like Iruka has been presented with the liberty of using a calling card of adventure, where he’s been told that there are several paths available to him, waiting under his feet, that whatever lies ahead may be a great challenge, perhaps painful, perhaps deadly, too, that there may be tears but it was all his for the taking. This, whatever this change is, keeps him smiling, it brightens his eyes from the lacklustre dullness. Sometimes in ways Kakashi thinks Iruka isn’t even aware of.

Iruka’s aura shifts completely, too.

While he still remains polite, strict, and incredibly dedicated to his post, he smiles more, his tone just a touch softer as opposed to cold and distant. He lingers in conversations when in the past, Iruka upheld a strict sense of office decorum. There had been a day when Kakashi had come into the office and spotted him looking over at baby pictures of one of the staff, something Iruka may have done prior to Tenzou’s death but not after it. No, Iruka had boxed that part of himself, cut himself off the world, that even something as simple as conversing about family with a colleague had been nipped at the bud.

This Iruka is warmer, a little more open.

This Iruka almost always has a small smile teasing around the corners of his lips, tucked under the rim of a paper tea-cup that gets delivered to him every other afternoon. Sometimes it lingers a little broader when Iruka and Kakashi share their afternoon tea by the glass window overlooking the village. Iruka’s eyes would be trained somewhere far and beyond, distant and obviously distracted, perhaps lost in a memory as the smile on his lips softens everything about him.

This change is what Kakashi likes best, when Iruka stands facing the sunset, painted in sunshine gold, looking beautiful, other worldly.

Kakashi guesses fairly early that something must have changed in Iruka’s previous dynamic with Tenzou, because only Tenzou can bring about this complete shift.

Kakashi gets confirmation one late evening, as he finishes making his village round, unable to sleep for the night. He sees Tenzou and Iruka stepping out of the movie theatre, not quite hand in hand but their fingers brushing every now and then as they walk. Iruka has, on his face, the broadest grin Kakashi has ever seen, his tone just a pitch higher in excitement as he converses animatedly about the movie they have just seen together. There is joy on Iruka’s face, something that hasn’t been a part of his expression in what feels like forever.

The fucked up thing about Iruka’s joy is that it draws Kakashi’s attention like a moth to a flame.

He finds it difficult to take his eyes off Iruka _now_ than he did before, unable to stop his gaze from brushing over Iruka, who laughs openly when Tenzou responds to something he says about the movie, head thrown back uncaringly for the world to see, for Tenzou to see, for Kakashi to see.

It tightens something hideous at the base of Kakashi’s throat, makes something ugly and monstrous claw at his ribcage when Iruka’s joy shouldn’t have that effect on him at all.

What Iruka does with his time, who he chooses to express that joy with is his business.

The fact that he’s doing so with his husband, the one person that truly deserves all the good the world can offer after having gone through – or still going through – hell and back, of being displaced and a foreigner to the unknown, shouldn’t make Kakashi close his eyes and turn his head away in partial shame, partial bitterness, and so full of guilt.

He had no business allowing these things to fester somewhere in his chest.

He had no business watching the couple walk away that night, stopping in front of the grocery store and coming out with a twin-stick fruit popsicle. He had no business watching Iruka break that in half, handing one to Tenzou and probably telling him that he and Naruto used to do this all the time.

Kakashi had no business.

And yet, there he is, standing and watching their forms disappear down the street.

*

“You seem well,” Kakashi says one day, not lifting his gaze from the document on the table. He gets a small, soft hum from Iruka, and when he flicks his gaze up, he sees a bit of a flush on Iruka’s cheeks. “Did he remember you?”

“No,” Iruka says, but it doesn’t come out sad, or bitter, or anything but accepting. “But we – we’ve decided to try to be together as we are now, in this present. We all have to move forward…”

“It seems to be going well,” Kakashi murmurs, an acknowledgment if anything else.

“I think so,” Iruka agrees, looking a little nervous. “It’s a little new, I’ll admit. Tenzou and I – we didn’t exactly get together under the best of circumstances.”

“Is that so?” Kakashi absentmindedly responds, picking up another dossier from the pile.

A part of him – the ugliest part of him – does not want to hear why or how they got together. And when that thought makes itself known, Kakashi is left feeling like a piece of shit, when all he can do is stare down at the documents below him as he realizes that he can’t keep doing this to himself. He can’t keep wanting someone who never truly belonged to him. He can’t keep wanting while still being happy for his dearest friend and comrade. It needs to stop. Iruka being in his orbit doesn’t help things either.

This can’t go on.

He can’t keep being reminded of how Iruka’s lips tasted like, or how the syllables of his name, had he allowed it, would have sounded like spilling from Iruka’s lips.

Iruka has no love for him.

Even when Kakashi does.

“If it doesn’t go well, we can be both at peace with the idea that we tried,” Iruka concludes, sucking in a deep breath and returning back to his paperwork.

“I think it’ll go well,” Kakashi says, because why wouldn’t it? Tenzou will inevitably fall in love all over again. It’s what happens when one takes the time to get to know Iruka, to understand him, to observe and look beyond the polite, strict mannerisms. Tenzou fell in love with him without realizing it in the past; Kakashi is sure that he would do so now, too. “You should have more faith in your husband, Iruka.”

“We should probably stop saying that now,” Iruka murmurs, a bit of a melancholic smile on his lips. “After all, the family records and statistical division has marked him deceased. And myself a widower. It hasn’t changed. I think it makes him uncomfortable, too…”

Kakashi falls quiet. He should have known.

It’d make anyone uncomfortable.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kakashi ends up saying and says nothing more on the topic.

*

The sight of a bouquet of zinnias in a wooden pot makes Kakashi act. By the second time he sees Iruka looking absent mindedly at the flowers on his desk, he decides that it’s time to make some changes.

“I think it’s time you consider returning to the Academy,” Kakashi says, making Iruka blink in his direction, frowning.

“Kakashi-san?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I really do believe your talent is wasted in this office. You know just as much as I do that the Academy is where you belong,” Kakashi says, not quite unkindly, but also not gentle. He didn’t want to leave any room for argument. He wanted Iruka out of his office in the kindest way possible.

“How long have you felt this way?” Iruka asks, after a lengthy pause, a frown knitting between his brows.

“Honestly?” Kakashi sighs. “From the beginning. Granted, circumstances required that you be away from your teaching post. That has changed now. You look better, you sound better. I am confident when I say that you can rejoin immediately. It wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

Iruka looks at his desk, at the balance sheets in front of him, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his head. “I do like the work here…”

“I didn’t say you didn’t,” Kakashi sighs. “And I’m grateful for all the work you’ve done for my office. But I’d be a shitty Hokage if I continued to rob those kids of a teacher that they truly deserve. What kind of man would that make me if I kept you here for selfish reasons and not the bigger picture?”

Trash.

It’d make you trash, the back of Kakashi’s mind whispers.

Iruka has a put-upon look on his expression, thinking deeply, lines wrinkling his forehead, scrunching up a bit of his nose as he sniffs and rubs the edge of his scar with his finger. He isn’t cutting Kakashi off, he isn’t denying Kakashi’s suggestion and possibly his plans of moving Iruka back to Academy, all of which are favorable signs. He isn’t retracting to himself, isn’t clenching his fists or even sitting up far too straight on his chair. If anything, Iruka looks like he’s really thinking about it.

Good, Kakashi thinks, swallowing past the bolus of dryness in his throat, as something under his ribcage _pinches_ , makes itself known at how it doesn’t want to be separated from Iruka. Not yet.

(Maybe not ever.)

“I don’t miss chasing after them,” Iruka says, and Kakashi knows he’s referring to the children who would bunk classes. “Will you let me thinking about it, Kakashi-san?”

“Of course,” Kakashi agrees but puts a time limit to it. “Let me know by the end of next week.”

“Yes, Kakashi-san…”

Next week would be the beginning of summer.

It’s the perfect time to announce to the Academy that their petitioning has worked, that they are once again getting their beloved teacher back.

*

The end of the week comes far too fast for Tenzou, who finds himself standing in the middle of the market, staring up at the biggest stall he can find, at the plethora of colorful yukatas swaying gently from their displayed hanging on the stall front. He isn’t sure why he had agreed to wear a yukata to the festival that evening, when he didn’t even own a yukata. He knows nothing about purchasing one either, not for himself anyway.

It’s how Stag and Racoon finds him, staring up at colorful summer prints, unable to make up his mind and looking a little green around the gills.

“Taichou?” Raccoon politely inquires, looking between Tenzou and the yukatas and back at him again.

“Ah, you guys,” Tenzou murmurs, bringing a hand up to the back of his head.

“You look troubled.” Stag tilts his head. “Need help?”

Tenzou flushes, clearing his throat behind a fist as he blinks away from them, turning to stare at a small child’s yukata, something that had koi prints at the bottom. “I’m suppose to purchase a yukata…”

“Oh? For Iruka-san?” Stag grins, looking roguish and teasing all at the same time.

“No, for myself,” Tenzou corrects, giving Stag a bit of a cocked eyebrow. Not everything he purchases is for Iruka, even if the bulk of it is. He may have asked his team for a few suggestions on what to treats to buy and where to take Iruka on dates over the past two weeks. It didn’t mean everything he does revolves around Iruka.

Sort of.

“For Iruka-san?” Raccoon asks again, and gets a slow exhale from Tenzou.

“Hey,” Tenzou frowns and gets a clap on his shoulder from Stag who laughs a little too loudly in the middle of the street.

“Taichou, you look like you can’t make up your mind. Be grateful Chiharu isn’t here, or she’ll call you homeless again,” Stag chuckles.

“We’ll help you. Actually, taichou, if you don’t mind following me, I know a better place to purchase a yukata,” Raccoon offers.

Tenzou gives the stall one more look, wondering what could possibly wrong with all the choices present on this one. Not wanting to hear any argument arise, he nods and falls in step with Raccoon, weaving past the crowd and into a smaller, more secluded store tucked into the side of an old building in the market. It opens up to a brightly lit interior, where the divide between men and women’s yukata is clear. It isn’t an explosion of color like the previous stall Tenzou had been staring at. The merchant seems to recognize Raccoon and offers assistance immediately.

Tenzou is presented with an abundance of choices, all ranging from darks to light colored yukatas, several obi prints, and possible matching tabi and zouri. They spend a good forty-five minutes discussing possibilities, presenting Tenzou with far too many choices, far too many comments about patterns and where it draws the eye, when all Tenzou really wants is to look decent and not like a trash bag, when he knows that Iruka will be making the effort to dress up, when Iruka is going to be beautiful.

He didn’t want to pale in comparison.

He wanted to be the man Iruka can depend on. He wants to look good, deserving as he stands next to Iruka.

“Taichou, do you know what Iruka-san is wearing?” Raccoon whispers.

“No…” Tenzou mutters, his frown deepening.

“Then, if I can make a suggestion…” Raccoon offers, and pulls out a dark gray yukata and a black and white patterned obi. It’s plain, it looks put together, it looks good. “I would suggest this.”

“Mmm, it wouldn’t matter what Iruka-san wore, it would probably match well,” Stag grins, nodding in approval.

Tenzou reaches up and rubs the back of his head.

He doesn’t have a clue what to expect. But he knew he had to make a choice. He’s spent too much time trying to figure out what to buy when he still has to go home, get ready and press the fabric before wearing. A dark color is a safe color. It didn’t have stripes or any sort of pattern which means drawing less attention to himself. It doesn’t seem like a bad choice.

Tenzou just isn’t sure why Raccoon couldn’t have suggested it from the beginning.

“Okay,” Tenzou nods, as he reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet, pointedly ignoring the knowing looks Raccoon and Stag exchanges.

*

They agree to meet at seven PM in the middle of the square. Iruka had to run an errand all of a sudden but had left Tenzou a note suggesting the change in plans. Tenzou didn’t see the problem in last minute change, and goes along with it.

Ten minutes before seven, Tenzou is standing under a lamp post, just a few meters away from where the beginnings of the festivities start. Tenzou finds himself leaning against the iron post while watching children, families and groups walk towards the festivities, all of them an open display of unrestrained joy and excitement. Citizens in yukatas light up the end of spring, a riot of color to rival and gardener’s paradise. There is music in the air, distant from where Tenzou stands, but still clear in its festive beats that visibly lifts the spirits of the people around him, making them hum, children’s feet drumming to the beat, some singing, some even jumping in excitement, plastic masks upon their faces. Everyone moves with a oneness with the community, as they gather in masses towards the lines of game stalls, street performers, and food stalls that leaves the air tasting so heavenly.

Along the usual clear path of the street, hanging lanterns shine overhead in criss-crossing patterns, illuminating and swaying gently with the late spring breeze. They cast red, white and yellow tinted lights upon the street, a kaleidoscope underneath the clear skies above. Some carried their own lanterns, some carried glossy plastic pinwheels in bold yellows, magenta, cyan and emerald green. They are the sequins amidst the colorful cotton donned by the citizens, sparkling under the colored lights overhead.

People look happy, Tenzou realizes, and wonders if he was happy like this too, a life time ago.

He wonders, like the photographs he keeps tucked in the drawer by his bedside, if he and Iruka, once upon a time ago, carried pinwheels like these people. Did they laugh and hum to the drumbeats? Did they share snow cones and chocolate bananas, grilled squid on a stick or warm red bean filled taiyakis? Did they play games at the stall, trying to win gold fish or put rings over large glass bottles? Did they lose? Did they win?

Only to realize that it didn’t really matter, what the past was.

Tenzou is here now, in this moment, waiting for Iruka to start something new. And much like how all their other dates have gone so far, he’s going to enjoy this one. He doesn’t know what he did in the past, but he knows now that he plans to play those games, to share everything and anything from the foodstalls until they’re sick to their stomachs, to show Iruka a good time because that is what he had promised to do when he had agreed to this new arrangement. 

(What he wants to do.)

Tenzou clears his throat as he glances at the time, finding that the small clock tower in the square now reads 7:01. He knows Iruka is punctual, but given the crowd, he doesn’t mind if Iruka is a little late.

He is thinking of what he wants to try first, trying to come up with a strategy when a familiar presence makes itself known behind him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a yukata like this before,” Kakashi deadpans, even when his eyes squint up to visibly crescents under the shadow of his hat. “You look well, Tenzou.”

“Hokage-sama.” Tenzou straightens, dipping his head politely. “Good evening.”

“Hmmm, how have you been? I hear you’ve made good progress training with your team; Stag gave me an update last week. You’re able to remember almost all your jutsus now,” Kakashi says, his head tilted to the side. “Your team has given you their vote of confidence that you are now field ready.”

“I appreciate that,” Tenzou murmurs, swallowing. He’s not sure what else he can say.

“I am interested in testing that vote of confidence myself,” Kakashi offers, tipping his chin a little bit in a what-do-you-think gesture. “You think you’re ready to spar with me?”

Tenzou blinks at the suggestion, studying Kakashi’s face. He’s had minor flashbacks of sparring with Kakashi, so he knows that this is something his past self has done several times. He isn’t opposed to the idea and perhaps, being exposed to something he actively did in the past may trigger something. Tenzou isn’t really holding his breath in terms of positive results but it wouldn’t really hurt to try to stimulate his memories further. More likely than not, it’ll probably yield negative results.

Tenzou sighs, pursing his lips momentarily. “I am not opposed to the idea, Hokage-sama. It will be good training. Maybe then you can form your own vote confidence once we… conclude…”

Tenzou’s words trail off, as he is momentarily distracted by Iruka’s figure appearing in the crowd, his face searching left and right as he stands there, searching for Tenzou.

Iruka is a vision in dark royal red, a rich navy blue obi tied securely around his waist. He had his hair tied up in a half bun, long locks cascading down his back and on his shoulder with wisps that curl around the edge. Something golden catches the light in the high bun the top of his head is secured in, the hairpin glimmering under the lanterns and glow of the street lights. Tenzou forgets, as the breath stills in his chest, that he had been conversing with the village leader, that he had been in the middle of a sentence because right then and there, the feeling of déjà vu washes over him. He remembers something like this, except Iruka wasn’t wearing red. He had been wearing blue. He had children around him. He had been pinning award ribbons.

Tenzou remembers looking at Iruka for the first time, looking like a god from the heavens, ethereal under the lights of the festivities, _beautiful_.

(He lost his breath back then too.)

And it is in that moment that Kakashi knows that things will be okay.

It is in the moment he witnesses Tenzou forget who he is, what he is, what he has been trained to do as Iruka spots him from across the way, lifting a hand up in a happy wave of greeting, a smile breaking across his previously searching face as he weaves past the crowd to Tenzou. Tenzou who looks absent minded, distant, who lifts his hand up slowly to wave back, a little shy, a little sheepish, even. Tenzou who forgets that Kakashi is even standing there, and jolts just the _tiniest_ bit when Kakashi claps a gentle hand over his shoulder.

Tenzou’s pupils dart to Kakashi for a second, before darting right back towards Iruka, completely ensnared.

“I’ll set time and send word about our spar,” Kakashi murmurs. “Go make him happy…”

“A-Ah, thank you, Hokage-sama,” Tenzou says, in a daze as he nods and steps forward.

Kakashi watches as Tenzou puts his hands together, as he weaves a single hibiscus in his hand, something that he hands over to Iruka, lips parted in awe. Kakashi watches as Iruka’s eyes widens just the tiniest bit, as he stares at the flower he’s offered for the longest time, before he looks up at Tenzou and leans up to kiss him on the cheek, gentle and something so soft, so wondrous in his gaze. Kakashi watches as Iruka tucks the stem of the flower in his hand, holding it the entire time as he offers Tenzou his arm. Tenzou shyly accepts that arm, looking nothing like himself, nothing even like the boy Kakashi remembers all those years ago when he first met Tenzou and first brought him under Sandaime’s command.

Iruka is happy.

Tenzou seems happy.

Kakashi thinks seeing them like this, together, not quite like what they were in the past but on the path to the same destination, he thinks he too, should be happy with this.

(He tells himself he is. It’s the best outcome he can hope for.)

*

They spend their evening playing games, trying street food and gloriously winning a pair of goldfish. Tenzou holds the bag in his hands, staring at the fish swim in circles as Iruka appears with two bags of iced soda in a bag, handing one over to Tenzou and taking a sip of his. They are in the middle of discussing arrangement for the fishbowl, trying to figure out where would the best place be to place such a thing in their living room when the sky suddenly illuminates with a splash of green and pink, followed later by a distant whistling sound.

The crowd stops moving all of a sudden, as everyone tilts their head up at the sky, watching the splash of colors bloom like spring flowers over the blanket of stars. Tenzou watches this and thinks that he is lucky to be alive, that he is lucky to have found the man who’s kept him alive all this time. When he had decided to give this arrangement at shot, he told himself that he’s going to have to take a leap of faith, that he’s going to have to trust that Iruka is indeed the man of his dreams, the man that still tells him to fight strong, that he isn’t someone planted by the Hokage to sabotage him.

Looking at Iruka now, he realizes that taking a leap of faith is something he’s been doing from the beginning.

When he had gone for his open search for Iruka.

When he doesn’t fight Konoha or her Hokage.

When he agreed to stay with Iruka in a house that may have been once his.

When he agreed to date and court Iruka, to do things right.

Iruka is beautiful under the display of fireworks, wonder and appreciating reflecting upon the gold flecks of his eyes. He remains a vision, even when his hair has started to come slightly loose from his bun, or when his earlier unwrinkled yukata now looks just a touch disheveled after hours of walking around playing games, eating, sitting, laughing, enjoying himself in Tenzou’s company.

Iruka is perfect even in his imperfections.

And in that moment, the world seems to fall into some sort of hush, as Tenzou focuses on the man that never fails to make his stomach swoop inwards when he allowed himself to finally _feel,_ to just go with things, see where it’d take him. The crowd, the popping noise of the fireworks exploding, the whistling of it as it rockets up to the sky above – they all get sucked into a vacuum. There is only the sudden rushing drum of Tenzou’s heart, and Iruka turning to look at him, blinking in confusion, that ghost of a smile tugging around the corners of his soft lips.

Tenzou brings a hand up, grasping Iruka by the chin as he leans forward, slanting his lips over Iruka’s in a soft kiss, closing his eyes and sinking back into reality seconds later, or maybe minutes later, his tongue brushing over Iruka’s parted lips just as the sound of Konoha’s citizens applauding starts to reach his ears.

Tenzou pulls back and finds Iruka flushing to the roots of his hair, his eyes wide, breath staggering in his lungs.

The crowd, it seems, is applauding at the fireworks that had concluded its display.

Tenzou finds himself unable to contain his smirk, as Iruka ducks his head and seems to shudder with a breath he can’t quite take fully, chewing on his lower lip, staring down at hibiscus flower in his hand and the bag of iced soda that is half finished.

“You’re beautiful,” Tenzou says, his smirk broadening when Iruka calls him an idiot under his breath, his ears igniting in a fiery red.

*

They walk home side by side, their hands brushing against each other as it always does when they head home after having a good time. They arrive home late in the evening, with Tenzou doing his usual show of walking Iruka to his bedroom door, where Iruka leans against the wood, holding his hibiscus flower in both hands, as Tenzou sets the gold fish on the hallway table, right underneath the painting.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Tenzou says, grinning.

“Me too,” Iruka nods, dimples dotting his cheeks. “Thank you, Tenzou…”

“You’re welcome,” Tenzou murmurs, his gaze sweeping over Iruka’s mouth, where Iruka is chewing his lower lip again. The lines of his body is pulled taut, like he’s not sure if he wants to step back or step forward. So Tenzou makes the decision for him by stepping forward, pressing a palm over the door, right beside Iruka’s head and slanting his lips over Iruka in a gentle kiss, lingering and slow, almost a little too chaste. He doesn’t deepen it, doesn’t brush his tongue out even when everything in him wants to, when his body suddenly _yearns_ to grab Iruka by the back of his head, slant him just _so_ and plunge his tongue into Iruka’s mouth. He pulls back before the heat that suddenly roars like a fire in his chest could get out of hand, could spread to his hands and make him do things that he shouldn’t. Just not yet. Tenzou pulls back, listening to Iruka’s breath hitch in his throat, the hand on the door balling to a tight fist before he releases it slowly. “Good night…”

“Good night…” Iruka murmurs, eyelids fluttering open as he looks up at Tenzou, a flush hot on his cheeks.

Iruka swallows, before shakily reaches behind him to open his door, the distance between him and Tenzou yawning as he takes one step and another towards the interior of his bedroom, until he is standing behind the door and closing it gently.

Tenzou listens to the door click shut before his shoulders sag, a shaky hand coming up to card through his short hair, as he turns around and grits his teeth, shaking his head as if the gesture would clear the sudden hum of arousal that had nowhere to go but inwards. Iruka is beautiful, and perfect, and so goddamn wonderful for his own good, that Tenzou has to wonder sometimes just what he had gotten himself into.

His thoughts come to a halt when Iruka’s door open all of a sudden, making him turn to see if something is wrong, only to see Iruka walk out and grab Tenzou by the wrist to yank him forward, meeting him half way in a kiss that has Tenzou jerking his hand out of Iruka’s grip and wrapping around his body, one hand carding through his hair, fingers wrapping around the hair pin and yanking that off the bun like he’s been wanting to do from the very beginning.

The pin clatters to the ground, forgotten, as does the tie securing the bun in place. It _snaps_ loudly, harshly, cutting through their breathless chase of each other’s tongues, that too falling to the ground. Tenzou pulls back enough to catch his breath, enough for just a moment to card his hands to Iruka’s obi, where he hooks his hand under it, following the line around his hip and waist, until they find the knot. Tenzou fumbles with it, his gaze heavy, dark, _focused_ on Iruka whose pupils are blown wide, his lips parted in soft inhalations, as he too fumbles at Tenzou’s obi, undoing the knot.

Tenzou’s obi comes off first, slipping to the ground, a pool of cotton that Tenzou ends up stepping on when he puts distance between them, just enough to shake the yukata off his shoulders, Iruka’s hands pushing the fabric backwards, until it slides past his arms and wrist into a pool of black on the polished wooden floors. Tenzou _burns_ with a heat that flushes over his entire naked body, swelling his cock rock hard, and leaving Iruka panting, dazed, as their mouths crash again, just as Tenzou frees the knot of Iruka’s obi, where it flutters down to the ground to join Tenzou’s yukata.

The sound of fabric ripping reaches Tenzou’s ears, something he cares little for when he yanks at Iruka’s sleeve a little too harshly, a little too carelessly. Iruka shakes himself free off his yukata, grabbing Tenzou by the forearms and pulling him with him, Iruka walking backwards, Tenzou walking forward until they reach the bed and fall into each other.

They weapon holsters on their thighs snaps free, as does the blade holster on Tenzou’s thigh. It clatters with a loud thump over the edge of the bed, unwanted, forgotten, as their hot breaths brush against flushed skin and swollen lips. Tenzou drags his mouth downwards, all the way to the curve of Iruka’s neck, losing his mind as he _inhales_ the heady scent of orange and cinnamon, right there by Iruka’s throat, the smell of his shampoo making him roll his eyes as traces his tongue over Iruka’s collarbone, tasting skin and Iruka’s staggered breaths, his teeth clamping down on bone and muscle as his fingers grips the edge of Iruka’s underwear, giving it a sharp tug downwards.

Iruka is a wanton mess under him, flushed and hot as he kicks off his underwear, sitting up enough to grab Tenzou by the back of his head, fingers fisting in his short hair and slanting their mouths together again, kissing him deeply, long, sucking the breath out of Tenzou’s lungs that he is only so happy to give.

(He’d give anything to Iruka.)

One moment he’s kissing Iruka, tasting sweet soda and everything that is _Iruka_ , the next Tenzou is on his back, his legs spread and his cock deep in Iruka’s mouth, as he stares at the ceiling and finds himself on that familiar bread crumb path again, except the trail has stopped. It’s familiar and not familiar, how Iruka’s mouth swirls over the head of his cock, how he laps at it, worships it, looks at Tenzou with his gaze as dark as the night sky, a smile around the corners of his lips like he’s enjoying the flesh in his mouth, like he’s wanted this all along.

Something about that has Tenzou staring, has him seeing past the smirk, the arousal, the vainglorious expression on Iruka’s face. He sees something he can’t quite put a finger too, as he drowns in heat and the steady strokes of Iruka’s tongue and fingers.

Tenzou doesn’t want to come like this.

Not in Iruka’s mouth.

So he’s sitting up, yanking Iruka up and off his cock, fingers fisting in long, dark, silk hair, wrapping it around his fist like rope as he rolls Iruka over and under him, pinning him down the bed and reaching down to stretch him, spreading him wide open with a finger, and two fingers, taking the offered lubricant Iruka shakily squeezes out of the tube in his hand, breathless, moaning, please, please, gods, _Tenzou_ , he says.

Tenzou kissing him again, shutting that trail of garbled heat from spilling from Iruka’s mouth, silencing it as he pushes into his body, filling Iruka with his cock and swallowing all of Iruka’s gasps, swallowing the syllables of his own name deep like it would give him a new identity.

He jerks into Iruka’s body once, twice, before find a steady pace that devolves into sharp and almost brutal pounding. Tenzou presses his forehead against Iruka, as Iruka wraps his legs around is waist, his arms around his shoulders, holding on to him as tight as he can, as each thrust forces a cry out of Iruka’s lips, his body tightening around Tenzou.

And then Iruka comes and Tenzou is coming too, watching as Iruka crests in his pleasure as he, once again, finds that familiar as well.

Familiar and not.

Tenzou closes his eyes when Iruka sighs, his forehead falling forward to Iruka’s shoulder, his face tucking into Iruka’s neck as he carefully eases off Iruka and gathers him in his arms. It doesn’t feel like the first, holding Iruka that is.

It feels like he’s done this before, too.

Iruka presses his forehead against Tenzou’s chest, his breath evening out to something steady, their legs tangled around each other over the covers, the heat evaporating and regulating to the cooler temperature of the bedroom.

Lying like this, with Iruka tangled against him, also feels familiar.

It should make him feel better, fucking Iruka.

Instead, this suspended feeling of knowing yet not knowing ends up frustrating Tenzou.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He watches Iruka sleep instead, watches that beautiful sleep get painted in gold, as the sun rises above the horizon, where that too feels familiar, just as the thought of, I want to spend the rest of my life doing this, forms in the back of his head.

(That too, is familiar.)

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, SOMEONE is in a shitty mood. LOL. You'd think after that smut he'd be in a good mood but NOPE!
> 
> Chapter is shorter than normal but EH! Love you guys! I'm so glad you're still reading this! So, so glad! Keep the YamaIru alive! :D


	16. xvi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-beta'd.

The sunrise comes as if it had missed the sky, wanting nothing more than to warm up the baby blue heavens to a radiant gold. Iruka stirs in his sleep when the rays of sunshine start to warm his exposed toes from the edge of the bed, shifting in Tenzou’s arms, a throaty noise of complaint escaping his lips as he cracks an eye open. Tenzou watches, ensnared not for the first time, as Iruka’s lashes flutters open, long and curled, still heavy with sleep, as he brings up a fist to rub the sleep from the corners, eyebrows knitting with the gesture. An ache like no other goes through Tenzou’s body, as he watches Iruka frown and drop his hand back on the sheets, pressing his cheek once more on its comfortable perch on Tenzou’s chest, eyelids drooping heavy.

For a moment, Tenzou thinks Iruka had fallen asleep again. Except he retracts his foot away from the patch of sunlinght on the bed, tucking it under the sheets and pressing warm toes against Tenzou’s cooler heel. The change of temperature makes Iruka hum a displeased noise, something that Tenzou realizes leaves him smiling as he watches all this, this incredibly, achingly beautiful person deny the conscious world in favor of the comfort and warmth of Tenzou’s arms and chest.

Iruka’s eyes opens a sliver, their gazes locking. And Tenzou has to tell himself to breathe when he watches a sleepy, soft and unguarded smile tug up at the corners of Iruka’s lips. Iruka who shifts in his position and pushes himself to roll on his stomach, his chin resting on Tenzou’s extended bicep under the pillow.

“Good morning,” Iruka murmurs, the words barely audible, soft in its delivery, content in its tone.

“Good morning,” Tenzou breathlessly says, and leans over to kiss Iruka’s forehead.

It’s only after he’s done it that he realizes what exactly he has done.

It leaves Iruka grinning wide, so incredibly happy, flushing just a little bit. The flush makes the red marks littering his neck, chest and shoulders stand out darker. Iruka’s hand snakes out from under the covers, reaching to gently cup the side of Tenzou’s face.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Iruka says, something tender tugging at corner of his lips, softening his gaze in the morning light.

“I should be the one saying that about you,” Tenzou murmurs, reaching up to brush a tendril of Iruka’s hair away from his face, enjoying the present, the warmth, the comfort of waking up slowly in bed with Iruka beside him. “Gods, you’re beautiful…”

Iruka laughs at that, open and cheerful, mirth making lines appear around the corners of his eyes as he carefully pushes himself off the bed and carefully straddles Tenzou’s hips, pressing their foreheads together, as everything in Tenzou goes very still, his hand coming to rest on Tenzou’s shoulder and neck, fingers warm and indulging in their caress.

“Do I get a good morning kiss?” Iruka asks.

“Do you only want a morning kiss?” Tenzou returns, his cock twitching at the warmth straddling his body, eager, hungry.

“I can be persuaded for more,” Iruka whispers, pressing his lips to the side of Tenzou’s jaw, peppering kisses all the way up to his ear, making Tenzou shudder and his eyes close. “It really will depend on your performance, ANBU-san~”

Tenzou’s eyes snap open at the ceiling, his fingers tightening on Iruka’s hip, as he sucks in a breath and stares at a different ceiling than the guest bedroom. He’s sitting here, Iruka on his lap, their noses brushing, an exaggerated moan spilling from Iruka’s lips as he rolls his hips on Tenzou’s lap, throwing his head back, and says with an exaggerated and theatrical moan, _Ahhh, Anbu-san, fuck me harder. Harder. Don’t stop, ahhh, ANBU-san~_

Tenzou blinks and the memory is gone, leaving him staring up at the ceiling where Iruka’s grin looms into vision. Iruka who interpret the bruising hold Tenzou has on his hips as a positive thing, Iruka who closes the gap between them, one hand brushing over the red swirling mark on Tenzou’s arm in a teasing caress as he takes Tenzou’s mouth in his.

Tenzou closes his eyes and lets Iruka kiss him, slow and languid, unrushed, taking his time, uncaring about the taste of sleep that eventually washes away when Tenzou cranes his neck backwards as Iruka slides down his body, peppering kisses down his chest and swirling a lazy tongue over his nipple. It leaves Tenzou breathless, his cock swelling to full mast that Iruka carefully takes into his mouth, taking his time, tracing the lines and vein ridges of Tenzou’s cock with the tip of his tongue.

Tenzou lies there, his hands in Iruka’s hair, eyes closed and jaw slack with sensual pleasure, enjoying this moment, this heat of Iruka’s hunger, losing himself until he comes into Iruka’s wanting mouth, slow and lazy, his orgasm making him arch off the bed and his fingers tighten in Iruka’s hair. Iruka sits up with a lecherous grin on his face, licking the corners of his lips like he’s just had a delicious treat, the back of his hand coming up to swipe at a trail of saliva off his chin. The sight Iruka makes is something that sears itself into Tenzou’s mind, something that would fuel his arousal quite easily if he allows it, as Iruka leans up and sprawls over the length of Tenzou’s body, his hard cock pressing between their abdomens.

“You taste so good, ANBU-san~” Iruka teases, kissing Tenzou.

Tenzou can taste himself and Iruka, something that makes his stomach swoop inwards like he’s dropping from a great height, something that makes his breath catch in his throat because once more, the thought forms, I want to spend the rest of my life doing this.

“Don’t call me that,” Tenzou murmurs with a bit of a bemused grin, deepening the kiss and silencing Iruka’s laugh with his mouth, reversing their position and pushing Iruka down into the pillows, nudging Iruka’s legs wide and open as he reaches down and begins to stroke the length of Iruka’s cock.

It’s a girthy cock, thick and heavy in his palm. Tenzou wants it in him, wants to feel that flesh split him open, wants to ride Iruka and watch him look up, lost in pleasure, as Tenzou fucks himself down on that cock. He wants Iruka to fill him with cum, flood him with his cresting pleasure. Tenzou grins into the kiss, reaching for the bedside where he squeezes enough lubricant into his fingers and carefully stretches himself, reaching behind him and making use of his mokuton to help, all as he languidly strokes Iruka’s cock with his other palm and keeps Iruka distracted by kissing him.

The preparation is a little rushed but Tenzou doesn’t care.

He deems himself ready and takes great pleasure in watching Iruka’s eyes widen, watching his lips part in what looks like open shock, something that segues off to a breathless moan when Tenzou takes the tip of Iruka’s cock, points it at his entrance and slowly lowers himself down the hard length. Iruka’s hands snap down to Tenzou’s hips, holding him in place, trying to slow him down but Tenzou doesn’t bother to wait. Iruka’s cock _burns_ , splitting him in half, tearing him wide open as he fully sits down on the girth and length, his chest heaving, a flush brushing down the length of his neck and chest. Iruka pushes himself slowly up on the pillows, his arms circling around Tenzou’s middle as they kiss again, Tenzou’s ass spasming over the thickness of Iruka’s flesh as his body accommodates all of Iruka in, takes him all the way in.

And then Tenzou is rocking his hips, sliding over Iruka’s cock, Iruka’s flesh squelching as it pistons in and out of Tenzou’s ass. Iruka is dazed as he breaths hard against Tenzou’s mouth, Tenzou’s teeth gritting as he adjusts himself and oh gods, there, right there, Iruka’s cock brushes against prostate. Tenzou shudders almost violently, his body drawn inwards as his pace slows down, as he tries to gather his bearings.

It’s then that Iruka flips them over, pushing Tenzou back on the bed and pushing his legs apart, taking a knee over the shoulder and sealing their mouths together, swallowing whatever _loud_ noise that manages to tear itself out of Tenzou’s throat, silencing it, muffling it, as Iruka’s hips begin to snap forward, long and hard, pushing deeper into Tenzou’s body, his long hair covering the rest of Tenzou’s face from the world, shielding his identity when he lies there vulnerable and open, being fucked with abandon under the bright morning light, not even tucked away in the shadows.

Something about that leaves Tenzou with a sense of liberation. Something about all this leaves him holding on to Iruka, his arms around Iruka’s middle, clinging on to him, refusing to let go as their bodies rock against each other. It doesn’t take much for Tenzou to get hard again. It doesn’t even take long for his pleasure to mount up until it reaches its tipping point over the edge, Iruka only slowing his thrust into languid teasing rolls of his hips, giving Tenzou’s body enough time to catch up as Iruka grins into the kiss when Tenzou _groans_ at the sudden slow pace.

And when Tenzou comes, he comes with a shudder, a _gasp_ that is deep, something that fills his lungs with sweet, fulfilling air as he looks up and watches Iruka come with his mouth parting for breath, his eyes scrunched shut as head floods Tenzou’s body and he’s coming too, long and hard again, cum splattering between their abdomens and just under their chins. 

They sink back to the world with Iruka lifting his head off Tenzou’s shoulder, a cheeky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, teeth peeking from between his lips as he leans down and plants his tongue on Tenzou’s abdomen, licking cum and sweat, scooping it all up and showing Tenzou just how much of a dirty, little thing he can be when he smacks his lips and swallows Tenzou’s cum like he’s licking fresh cream out of a dish.

It makes Tenzou _groan_ and bring the back of his hand up to his forehead, butterflies exploding in his stomach as Iruka throws his head back and laughs, beautiful, gorgeous, as if he were the god of the sun himself.

“I can’t help it,” Iruka murmurs, as he makes a motion to pull out of Tenzou but gets stopped when Tenzou’s hand snaps up and holds him in place.

“Wait…” Tenzou swallows, and opens his mouth to say something.

Except nothing comes out.

Iruka seems to understand though, because he leans over, doesn’t pull out and instead, kisses Tenzou once more.

*

They spend all day lounging in bed, talking about plans for the day. It is during this time that Iruka mentions how he’s thinking of returning to the Academy. How he actually misses the Academy, now that he’s allowing himself to think about it. Tenzou watches Iruka stare up at the ceiling, deep in thought, comfortable in the circle of Tenzou’s arms before he turns to look at Tenzou like something had just clicked into place.

“I think I’m ready,” Iruka murmurs, swallowing. “I think I can be okay going back to the thing I love the most…”

Tenzou thinks that’s wonderful news. Iruka should always be surrounded by good things, should be doing the things he love the most, after all.

(Because Iruka deserves all the good there is in the world. He is what you fight for.)

“That’s good,” Tenzou responds, unable to stop the twitch of his lips that pulls back to a smile. It leaves Iruka staring. “Will it make you happy?”

“Teaching is my shinobi way.” Iruka swallows, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “I have abandoned it for too long…”

“Not anymore,” Tenzou gently says, and pushes himself up off the bed, looming over Iruka. “I am looking forward to walking you to the Academy in the mornings, Iruka-sensei.”

Iruka looks up at him with an achingly happy face, something that leaves Tenzou weakened and incredibly vulnerable as he leans down and tastes Iruka’s smile, losing himself once more.

*

Something clicks into place after that day and Tenzou, for the life of him, has never felt more grounded, the grip of his roots strong in the earth.

Their dynamics take a shift towards domesticity.

They begin to prepare nearly all of their meals together. Iruka would do most of the cooking while Tenzou does the clean up and sometimes, the preparation. They start to do everything together, always gravitating towards each other’s presence when at home.

If they aren’t in bed giving and receiving pleasure, then they are cuddled comfortably on the sofa. Tenzou’s favorite position becomes the one where his head is pillowed on Iruka’s chest, Mango’s comfortable fuzzy weight on his stomach as they watch stand up comedies and television dramas together.

They clean the house together, they get groceries together and everyday, Tenzou picks Iruka up from the administrative building, always waiting outside with a small bouquet of flowers that always leaves Iruka _blushing_. That becomes the high light of Tenzou’s day, everyday.

*

Summer in Konoha is humid and stiflingly hot.

They spend those days together too, cooling off with jugs and jugs of flavored ice tea at home, and when it isn’t so unbearably humid at night when a cool breeze kisses Konoha’s residential building tops, they lounge on the deck, enjoying the smell of summer and fresh green grass, sometimes with iced tea, Mango lounging between them, sometimes with popsicle sticks or chilled watermelon slices.

One weekend, Iruka surprises him with an onsen pass, a half day’s journey to the resorts on Konoha’s highest hills. They spend their weekend there, drinking cold milk and soaking away comfortably. In the evenings, they dine on freshly made sushi and chilled sake and when the lights go off, Tenzou makes love to Iruka, leaving shadows of himself on his body. Come the sunrise, Iruka makes love to Tenzou, leaving handprints and bite-marks that Tenzou finds himself touching absent mindedly.

On their way home, Tenzou finds himself staring at the lines of Iruka’s back, at the content smile on his face, realizing not for the first time how wonderful and lovely this precious person truly is, how his past self must have also been powerless in falling for him, much like how Tenzou is now.

As they step into Konoha’s main square that early evening, Tenzou realizes that he hasn’t been thinking much of the past at all. Not all summer.

That for the first time since this clusterfuck, he is truly happy.

And not for the first time, once more, he realizes that he wants to do this – being with Iruka – for the rest of his life.

*

Tenzou is reading a book one summer evening, after a lovely dinner when he stumbles upon something that says, that love is a condition where the happiness of another is essential to one’s own.

Tenzou looks up from those words to stare at Iruka seated on the sofa, Mango sprawled belly up on his lap, his fingers rubbing at the cat’s belly, the broadest, most relaxed and unguarded smile upon Iruka’s face. He looks so happy, so unlike the man that had knelt on the ground that day in the interrogation room when Kakashi had granted Tenzou permission to see the man in his dreams for the first time. So unlike the man that had pressed healing chakra on Tenzou’s scrapes, cuts and bruises.

Iruka being happy like this, so unexplainable beautiful, it makes Tenzou feel accomplished.

If being happiness forms in the most grateful of hearts, then Tenzou thinks he is happy just being by Iruka’s side. He is grateful to be able to experience a great level of contentment with something as simple as Iruka walking through the door of their shared home, when he knows that for the rest of the evening, Iruka belongs to only him. When Iruka is both fireworks and excited chatter, sometimes quiet after a busy day – it didn’t matter to Tenzou. Being near Iruka lights him up from the inside, Iruka’s presence bringing with it a serenity that Tenzou didn’t think he can ever experience without Iruka being close.

(It’s always been like that. Even all those years ago, when he would wake up in the farm with Iruka’s smile fading with the morning light, leaving you with only the memory of dimples doting his cheeks, the warmth of his extended hand and the whisper of the words, _fight strong._ )

The breaths Tenzou takes aren’t as fulfilling when Iruka is away from him. It leaves him with a feeling of displacement, no ground under his feet, that the only thing keeping his knees steady and his back strong is the thought of just coming back home to Iruka, to his arms, to his smile and his kisses. Just sitting next to Iruka is one of Tenzou’s new favorite things in the world, now.

If his past self had felt like this at all, Tenzou can’t blame him.

It stopped mattering to Tenzou, the suspicion of whether all this is real. It stopped mattering to Tenzou, the past memories that surfaces like a badly cast genjutsu.

Anything beyond the past three years can be discarded.

Because when Iruka looks up and holds Mango’s paw up at Tenzou, mouthing something silly and so endearing like, _Mango, say hello to your favorite cat-dad in the world,_ when Mango simply gives a throaty meow, yawning in Tenzou’s direction even when Iruka is waving his black paws at Tenzou, that happiness, that unguardedness, Tenzou realizes that this is all he wants.

This existence.

This present.

And this to be his future for however many years he has left in his body.

*

Iruka’s transfer back to the Academy becomes official by mid-summer, when he comes home one day carrying a box filled with textbooks and a standard issue lesson planner provided by the Academy. Tenzou is by his side, taking the box out of his grip as he sets it on the counter, seeing workbooks and reference text tucked within.

“Like I told Hokage-sama, I don’t miss chasing after the kids,” Iruka sighs, but not unhappily as he approaches the counter barefoot, opening the box wider and taking out one of the workbooks. “Huh, they finally changed it.”

“Was it not that before?” Tenzou asks, curious.

“No. A few of us has been petitioning to change the workbooks for years now. I’m glad it finally came through. This is a lot more effective for the younger kids than the previous one,” Iruka says, setting the workbook aside and going through the rest of the box. “It’s pretty much still the same. I’m going to have to get new supplies. I threw out most of everything thinking I wasn’t going to go back teaching.”

“Let me come with you, then,” Tenzou says, reaching up to caress a thumb over the curve of Iruka’s cheek. “We can have dinner outside after. You should know that my team has taken it upon themselves to casually suggest new date places now, even I don’t ask.”

“Oh?” Iruka grins, stepping into Tenzou’s space, wrapping his arms around Tenzou’s shoulder. “What did they suggest now?”

“Izakaya Shingen,” Tenzou says, pressing their foreheads together. “I have strict instructions from Stag to, and I quote, stay the hell away from their crabcakes, taichou.”

“Then we should stay away from their crabcakes~” Iruka sing songs.

*

Tenzou is walking back into the village square with his team after a rigorous day of training when a summoning hawk flutters down from the sky, wings flapping and hovering in front of Tenzou. Tenzou holds his arm out as the bird perches on his forearm, as Tenzou reaches out for the message tucked against one of its legs. Once he secures the message, the hawk flutters away, leaving Tenzou to unfurl the message which reveals to be the Hokage seal, a date and a time.

He remembers his conversation with Kakashi during the festival, almost three weeks ago, when Kakashi said he’d put aside some time to assess Tenzou’s readiness to be field-active again.

“A mission?” Sparrow asks, milky eyes narrowing, a frown tugging at her face.

“No,” Tenzou says, tucking the message away. “Hokage-sama wants to spar with me. He will be doing a final assessment.”

“Ah, good luck then, taichou,” Raccoon says, stretching his arms behind his back. “You’re going to be fighting the village’s strongest man.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Tenzou mutters, which makes Stag laugh, loud and hearty, head thrown back in bemusement as Sparrow chuckles behind a hand and Raccoon merely grins.

“So! Plans for tonight, taichou?” Stag asks.

Stag is the most fearless of the two when asking Tenzou about his personal life, no qualms for reservations in his curiosity whatsoever. It’s become a thing at least once or twice week, where Stag would ask if Tenzou has any plans and save Tenzou the embarrassment of asking silly things like, where’s the best place to buy coffee from? Or who does the best bento boxes in the village? It almost always devolves into a debate, where personal preferences break the team apart. They almost never agree, which leaves Tenzou standing there, feeling like a potted plant as his team bickers back and forth.

It’s not that Tenzou doesn’t welcome their help. He’s grateful for it.

“Nothing like that. We’re going to be purchasing supplies for Iruka tonight. He will be returning to the Academy soon. He wants to get a head start on his lesson planning,” Tenzou says, which makes his team exchange looks.

“Really? Iruka-san is going back?” Raccoon asks.

“That’s really good news, taichou!” Sparrow nods.

“Ahhh, I hope my cute, little Hayako gets him this year! It’s her first year at the Academy! She will be lucky to have Iruka-sensei as her teacher~” Stag looks hopeful, every bit the doting father he is outside of the porcelain mask, his rugged face relaxed and happy at the prospect of his daughter getting taught by one of the village’s best.

“I hope she does then. End up in Iruka’s class,” Tenzou says, reaching up and clapping a hand on Stag’s shoulder.

“You should get him a present.” Raccoon suggests, which is met with unanimous agreement from both Stag and Sparrow.

“A present…” Tenzou parrots, reaching up to rub the back of his head. “Like a teacher of the year mug?”

“That is a little corny, taichou,” Sparrow points out. “I think iruka-san will get a lot of that from his peers and students. You should make your present a little more special.”

“Get him a nice pen.” Stag crosses his arms in thought.

“Or maybe a lunch bag,” Sparrow offers.

“Actually, I think you should get Iruka-san a new satchel with his initials on it. I know of a leather craftsman in the village who does excellent work. Iruka-san hasn’t taught in a while. I think he’d appreciate something to carry all his Academy work in,” Raccoon suggests, which makes everyone turn to look and stare at him in silence. “What? It’s practical.”

Tenzou can see the suspicious gleam in Stag and Sparrow’s eyes, as they continue to stare at Raccoon who starts to flush just a little bit. Tenzou knows an argument is about to rise, his fist coming up to hide the grin that he’s trying and failing to smother.

“You seem to know so much about Iruka-san,” Sparrow prods. “You seem to also always have the correct suggestions, too.”

“I admit to checking up on Iruka-san’s well being during taichou’s absence. Nothing untoward, taichou. I just found it suspicious when I stopped seeing Iruka-san around the village like before so…” Raccoon clears his throat, his flush deepening when he averts his gaze from Tenzou, who raises an eyebrow at the embarrassment. “We can conclude that my suggestions are just of higher quality

Tenzou takes pity on him.

(A part of him also wonders just what did Raccoon see during the times he made sure that Iruka was doing ‘okay’ – whatever that even means.)

“I’m guessing the three of you are going to help me pick this satchel?” Tenzou asks. He is met with cheeky grins from all three as he sighs in defeat, lifting his hands up in agreement. “Lead the way…”

*

If somebody had to ask Tenzou to describe what it felt like to have pieces of your scalp chipped off by a screwdriver, he can probably describe it in great detail, given that he’s been standing there like a forgotten tree stump between three ANBU elites, listening to them bicker – albeit quite civil still – about why their choices for a leather satchel supersedes the other.

They’ve been arguing for the past thirty minutes, uncaring that the shopkeeper has chosen to hide behind the cash register, his bald head peaking from the side, the glare of his glasses obscuring wide grey eyes and a nervously sweating face.

Stag is standing firm on the model he is holding up in his hands, that judging from the printed tag, describes its color as midnight picnic matte, chilli jam matte and biscuit matte. To Tenzou, it looked like light brown, orange and blue. He’s not sure where the picnic, jam and biscuit comes into play, but he knows that what Stag holds in his hands is not something Iruka would appreciate.

In a way, Raccoon and Sparrow had a fair point.

“Ryu, just because Iruka-san works with children, it doesn’t mean you can make a decision on the same level you’d make a decision when you’re buying Hayako’s first book bag,” Racoon says, clutching his own satchel model.

“What’s wrong with this? It is lively, it is trendy,” Stag frowns, holding a finger up. “And it will definitely show that Iruka-san is a man who keeps up with today’s young generation! A bag makes a man, you know?”

Tenzou wants to say, _no it doesn’t_ , but decides to keep his mouth shut instead, trading looks with what looks like a nervous shop-owner who doesn’t know what to do with four towering and intimidating looking shinobis crowding his small shop.

“Not in matte chilli jam and matte biscuit, Ryu,” Sparrow adds, siding with Raccoon.

“Like your boring blue choice is more original, huh, Chiharu?” Stag asks. “Which by the way, says _midnight picnic matte_ too!”

“It’s a solid color,” the Hyuuga glares, eyebrows sloping downwards. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s blue like his uniform! It’s monotone!” Stag reaches out and tugs at the magnetic flaps. “And this? Did you forget just _how_ much work Iruka-san takes home? Things are going to spill out of that bag. He needs something with sturdy buckle fastenings. Like this!” Stag holds out his colorful satchel choice.

Tenzou takes that as his queue to step in between Stag and Sparrow when he sees the corner of Sparrow’s eye twitch in irritation.

“If I may,” Raccoon interrupts. “Iruka-san is deserving of something classier. What I have picked is a hybrid between a briefcase and a satchel, a batchel if you will, which combines an adjustable shoulder strap along with a functional top handle. It has elements of being trendy but still stays true to the original satchel shape and form. It has a handy front pocket for perhaps his stationary, and double buckle fastenings to keep everything within the main pocket. The leather is pliable enough that – _what_?”

“Taichou,” Sparrow turns to look at Tenzou, looking quite unimpressed. “You’re going to go with Kosuke’s suggestion, aren’t you?”

Stag crosses his arms. For a man who towers two inches higher than Tenzou, and three inches broader, he does a good job of looking quite petulant. Tenzou is forced to assume that this behaviour must have something to do with the fact that Stag is a proud doting father to three little girls. The stubble on his chin and cheek does nothing to hide the fact that he is genuinely pouting, lips curved in an upside down frown as his colorful satchel dangles in his large hand.

“He’s been working on his salesman persona when you two have been slacking,” Tenzou says, which makes Chiharu roll her eyes and hand back the blue satchel she had picked as a suggestion to the shopkeeer. “But I am not taking it in black.”

“No?” Raccoon blinks, looking down at the _black grain_ satchel in his hands.

“I think I’ll go with this color,” Tenzou points at one of the colors on display, one that reads _oxblood_ ; it isn’t quite maroon but not quite dark brown either. Tenzou thinks with Iruka’s initials etched in gold would give a finer finish, something that Iruka would appreciate. Tones of deep reds does suit Iruka best. He imagines Iruka slinging the handle over his head and shoulder, his fingers brushing the soft leather gently, and smiles.

“I think it’ll look great on Iruka-san,” Racoon says, smiling a small smile.

“Yes,” Sparrow agrees, nodding in agreement.

“Taichou knows what would look best on Iruka-san, after all,” Stag adds, and then winks when Tenzou’s gaze snaps up at that.

For the life of him, Tenzou cannot stop the blush from igniting all over his face, something that makes his team laugh at his expense, as Stag throws an arm around his shoulder, while the shop-keeper scuttles away to find the exact make and model that Tenzou wants, likely happy to get rid of the noisy shinobi party that may or may not be scaring other possible patrons for the night.

*

Tenzou comes home that day with a mild headache, his present tucked into a box that is elaborately wrapped in black wrapping paper, that is folded to show like a crane is taking flight off the box, secured with an even far more elaborate red ribbon. The wrapping had been Sparrow’s idea and her choice of color. Tenzou has to carry the box like a serving tray, after being sternly warned by his team to _not_ crumple the effort or it will ruin the element of surprise.

Bring him flowers, too, taichou, Racoon had said.

And cake, Stag had said.

Tenzou enters the apartment balancing three things on his person. On one hand he holds the elaborately wrapped box containing Iruka’s satchel like a serving tray. On the other hand, he balances a small box with four cupcakes after Stag had dragged the team across town to a small bakery that apparently serves the best, according to Stag’s eldest pre-teen. Under his left armpit, Tenzou has the stems of a bouqet of flowers clenched and almost slipping just as he kicks the door shut.

The smell of donburi assaults his nose the moment he steps past the genkan, and sure enough, there is Iruka, already plating their dinner in to their respective plates and bowls, Mango by his feet tucking into his own foodbowl of tinned salmon.

“Goodness!” Iruka says, when he turns around and sees Tenzou looking exactly how he felt: haggard. “What is all this?” Iruka asks, setting the chopsticks down and quickly rushing up to Tenzou’s side, taking the two boxes off his hands and carefully setting them on the dining table.

Tenzou _sighs_ and decides that it’s best to give it now. He leans over and presses his lips over Iruka’s cheek, something that has become customary between them now before he presents him with a bouquet of yellow and white tulips – cheerful thoughts and claim of worthiness.

Iruka flushes as he takes the bouquet, his finger tips brushing gently over the petals. “I am happy for you to be returning to your shinobi way, the thing you love the most. I have not seen you teach, but I think you are worthy of being a great teacher.” Tenzou says, earnest and meaning every word. “I got this for you, hoping that it’ll serve you well during your days of teaching…”

Tenzou holds out the present box, watching as Iruka’s eyes go owlishly wide. Iruka takes the box and stares at the elaborate wrapping, his fingers brushing the fine folds of the crane’s tail. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead,” Tenzou murmurs, leaning his hip on the dining table, watching Iruka set the box down and ever so slowly start to unwrap his gift.

Iruka opens the lid and unfolds the inner wrapping paper only for his fingers to go very still at the edge of the box, his lips parting in surprise. There is a tremble in his fingers as he pulls the leather satchel out from the box, his fingers brushing over his name embossed in gold by the flap between the buckles before he breathlessly says, “This is beautiful.” Iruka looks up at Tenzou. “Tenzou, this is too much…”

“No it isn’t,” Tenzou says, whisper soft. “You deserve good things Iruka. This is just something small and—“ Tenzou is cut off when Iruka throws himself into his arms, his hands catching his lover, his dusty sleeves circling around Iruka’s middle.

“It’s wonderful,” Iruka murmurs, pulling back and leaning up to press a long lingering kiss to Tenzou’s jaw line. “Thank you,” Iruka says, the words a warm breath against Tenzou’s neck.

“You’re welcome,” Tenzou says, and leans down to meet Iruka’s mouth half way for a kiss.

*

On Iruka’s first day returning to the Academy, Tenzou notices how he is surrounded by a nervous sort of energy. Iruka had gotten out of bed before dawn, leaving Tenzou behind on the guest bed feeling a little cold and devoid of the comfort of having Iruka’s body in his arms. Tenzou spends the next half an hour listening to Iruka do his morning stretches outside by the deck, something he realizes Iruka does when he’s apprehensive, or trying to get his nerves to calm down. He’s been doing it more lately, which makes Tenzou wonder why when Iruka has spend the last few weeks meticulously studying the curriculum, memorizing the material and coming up with his lesson plans for his assigned classes.

Tenzou gets up that morning when the usual thirty minute stretch turns to a forty minutes. He puts on coffee this time instead of tea, moving to stand by the living room window, watching Iruka practice more complicated stretching poses on the rubber mat he has laid out on the deck, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he alters between the handstand-scorpion-pose and feathered-peacock-pose. Iruka’s entire body flexes in the soft morning light, shadows cutting across the lean muscles cuts of his body.

He's beautiful like this, graceful, perfectly balanced and so very sexy, that Tenzou can’t help but watch Iruka’s ass and sculpted stomach arch and bend, fluid like water, extremely and beautifully flexible, with Tenzou crossing his arms and uncaring that the warmth in his stomach starts to flare just the tiniest bit to the beginnings of an arousal.

He joins Iruka after a few minutes of watching, taking up a spot beside him, mirroring his movements like a shadow, taking their sweet time in altering between each poses. Tenzou grins at Iruka when they end up facing each other in the tripod-headstand-with-lotus legs, which they unfold and get into corpse-pose. This is where Tenzou notices the flush on Iruka’s cheeks is not from exertion but because he’s a little distracted.

“Iruka-sensei is sexy when he’s got his ass in the air,” Tenzou says, laughing when Iruka wobbles just the tiniest bit in corpse pose. “I can watch you do this all day~"

“Pervert,” Iruka mutters, flushing all the way down to his chest.

Tenzou pushes himself off the ground and flips himself over to his feet, bending down and bodily picking up Iruka off the floor, pressing their chest flushed against each other, pointedly looking down when he feels Iruka’s arousal brushing against his own inner thigh. “For me?”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” Iruka huffs, planting a hand on Tenzou’s face and shoving him backwards. “You’re going to have sell that innocence of yours a lot better because I am not buying it, you know exactly what you’re doing!”

“Ahhh, Iruka-sensei is scolding me,” Tenzou teases, laughing out loud when Iruka begins to walk back towards the sliding glass door, his nose wrinkling with his most unimpressed look all over his face.

Tenzou follows him, still chuckling, all the way into the hallway bathroom where Tenzou pointedly yanks Iruka against his chest again, slants his head and kisses him fully on the mouth, pushing Iruka’s pants down and freeing his arousal.

“Tenzou—“

“Relax,” Tenzou says, guiding Iruka towards the shower stall, turning on the warm water and kicking his own pants off. “You’ve been so tense the past few days. Let me take care of you, sensei,” Tenzou whispers, breath brushing hotly over Iruka’s ears.

Iruka remains quiet for the rest of the morning, head arched into the cold spray as Tenzou takes his hard cock into his mouth.

*

Turns out Iruka had no reason to be nervous about returning to the Academy at all.

A week later and he’s the happiest Tenzou has ever seen.

And every morning, as Tenzou walks Iruka to the Academy before he heads off for training, he keeps thinking how he wouldn’t mind truly doing this for the rest of his life.

*

Tenzou’s sparring day with Kakashi arrives one late afternoon, a little after lunchtime on a Tuesday. Tenzou and his team ends their training early that day in favor of waiting for Kakashi in the designated training ground Kakashi had booked for this particular day, where all elements and terrains are available for their use.

Kakashi arrives thirty minutes late, without his robes and hat, slouching and looking quite cheerful and excited to be present.

Tenzou’s team wishes him the best of luck before disappearing to watch from a safe distance, leaving Tenzou standing there in his ANBU gear save for the arm guards.

“Remember anything useful yet?” Kakashi asks, as he cracks his knuckles and rotates his neck a few times.

Tenzou isn’t surprised at the question. He hasn’t seen Kakashi since the festival several weeks ago. He shakes his head in response. “No, Hokage-sama.”

“Not even Iruka?” Kakashi frowns.

“It doesn’t matter to us anymore,” Tenzou says, eyebrows narrowing.

“Does it, now,” Kakashi hums a little bit, getting into a fighting stance that Tenzou mirrors. “Then it shouldn’t matter to you if I go with our usual: first five to hit the floor. Your team will be keeping watch.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tenzou agrees, relaxing his fingers, his chakra flaring just as Kakashi’s flares too.

In a blink of an eye, Tenzou has shirt short blade drawn, the blade clashing with the steel of Kakashi’s kunai, the metal grinding against each other in a straight undaunted horizon. Tenzou stalls the surge of power in Kakashi’s swing, holding his gaze, refusing to shiver under the brutality of Kakashi’s undoubtedly compelling strength.

Their blades slide and clash again, their boots skidding across dirt and gravel as they cross the distance between each other, ready to slice at each other’s throat, going for each other like they truly mean to see the other dead.

The earth suddenly trembles under Tenzou’s feet, making him leap up in the air just as jagged spikes of earth protrudes upwards, his feet carrying him around the pillars of earth just as vines erupt from the pillar, snapping forward like leather whips towards Kakashi, who neither evades or dodges, but instead charges forward with a fistful of lighting, turning mokuton to nothing but ash. Kakashi doesn’t stop his front charge, his fist pulling back in a punch, before he winks out of sight completely.

Tenzou has seconds to react when the crackling sound of lighting suddenly appears from his left, a nanosecond to replace himself with a wood clone, leaving his spot by the earth pillars to come behind Kakashi instead, just as Kakashi’s fistful of lighting goes right through his wooden clone, shattering it to a thousand splinters that then fades to ash. Tenzou is clapping his hands to form seals, letting free a salvo of wooden bullets fly, darkening the sky, obscuring the afternoon sun in their numbers, as they land and pierce the earth pillars, Kakashi leaping backwards, lightning gone and in his hands are kunais, blocking and slicing through the barrage.

But then Kakashi surges forward his hands slapping to the final formation of a suiton seal just as a high pressure jet of water blows past Kakashi’s lips, piercing through the onslaught of wooden bullets, breaking their trajectory as they rain towards the ground.

Water turns to fire, blue seguing to red hot flames, engulfing the earth pillars and scorching the trees and forest in its path. Tenzou leaps backwards just in time to put up an earth wall, ducking under for cover as the heat _roars_ above his head, Tenzou gritting his teeth as he tries to regroup and re-strategize.

“You’re not taking this seriously!” Kakashi calls out, when the fire goes off.

Tenzou sinks deep into the earth, holding still, listening for reverberations just as a gloved hand comes reaching forward in the dark, wrapping around his neck and _pulling_ Tenzou back up to the surface, the side of his face _slamming_ down hard into the broken earth, making black spots appear around the corners of his vision. Tenzou blinks back those spots, that turns to bright lights as he pushes himself off the ground, spitting out blood from the corner of his split lip, and for a moment, he as to remind himself that he’s in a forest, not a green field. There is no grass in this training field. Kakashi didn’t pin him down on grass because he had scorched everything earlier with _katon_ earlier.

“One,” Kakashi counts, releasing and pushing Tenzou’s head further into the earth before he pulls his fist back and the crackle of lightning illuminates the crater on the ground.

Tenzou is gone and back in the earth, emerging from the other side on top of a water phoenix, charging forward with mokuton erupting and whipping from both his palms, right at Kakashi who gets slammed down by mokuton, a drowning tidal wave washing him backwards, hopefully filling his lungs with water.

But Tenzou knows better than to think that his _suiton_ technique would put a stop to Kakashi, let alone pin him down.

Tenzou is whipping backwards, the bloom of the round mokuton shield on his forearm shattering with the force of Kakashi’s punch, wood splintering outwards, before Tenzou pulls out his kunai and aims at Kakashi’s open and vulnerable jugular. Kakashi blocks with his forearm, his other arm swinging forward with a kunai that Tenzou blocks with his forearm too.

And then they’re kicking and and punching, an almost choreographed dance of destruction, tearing each other apart, going for where the other is the softest. Tenzou is blocking and feinting, sinking to the ground and coming out the other side when Kakashi releases a barrage of shuriken, returning the favor by stepping in to the earth and making blocks of mokuton arms, extensions of himself aim straight for Kakashi’s head.

Lightning and wood clash, water and earth clash, fire and wind is met with the sudden forest Tenzou grows to break the force of Kakashi’s _fuuton_ , a towering spread of orange trees, peppered by white blossoms the dances in the air when mokuton withstands the deadly force.

The earth under Tenzou’s feet suddenly shakes and suddenly he’s going high up and up, roots ripping and orange trees falling apart, sinking into a ravine that makes him stares wide eyed at it, sees the pitch black of the bottom extending and extending.

It distracts him, the sight of the ravine, for just a horrible, vulnerable second.

Kakashi’s foot connects with the side of Tenzou’s head, hard and trauma inducing, the force of it sending Tenzou _flying_ , across the raised earth, arching in the air as his entire world rattles, spinning out of control and suddenly he’s falling on his side, landing down the slope of upturned earth, unable to break his fall.

Tenzou falls and falls and lands with a crash, head first at the bottom of the man-made ravine, where the water from his earlier _suiton_ had collected, muddy, wet, cold.

And dark, as Tenzou sees the flickering image of broken logs and a rush of tidal wave. His body is freezing and broken, the skies above him pitch black when he knows it shouldn’t be, he knows it’s just a little past lunch time. Tenzou suddenly can’t breathe, mud filling his nose as he jerks up to his knees and _vomits_ , his limbs shaking as everything in him screams to get out of sight, get out of sight, move, move, move.

The crackle of lightning makes Tenzou surge forward, out of Kakashi’s fist trajectory, slipping on mud as he rolls down further into the shadows of the man made ravine, ducking out of sight as leans against a pillar of earth, unable to quite breathe, his head _throbbing_ with an ache that leaves him nauseous, weak, his knees still shaking, his hands shaking, oh gods, he can’t outrun them. He’s never going to outrun them.

Tenzou looks ahead at the forest and takes off, sending five wooden clones in other directions as he runs, runs, runs, putting distance between himself and his pursuer, until he reaches the edge of the forest the opens up to a clearing of the river.

A river that suddenly rises up like a tsunami, coming right at him, something that makes Tenzou freeze one second too late in his tracks, his head suddenly _pinching_ , making him fall his knees as the light of the sun above him disappears and its dark again.

The water hits him, shoving him back and slamming him against a great oak tree, cracking ribs and bone from the sheer force of the _suiton_ jutsu, holding him place as he _screams_ in pain, gritting his teeth as the jutsu runs it course and dies out.

Tenzou drops like a sack of potatoes on the forest floor, panting, desperate, his strength suddenly waning, pushing himself off the ground and running, running again, as fast as he can, unable to think, unable to see beyond the shadowy dark of the forest.

A fist catches him in the jaw, square and hard, fucking reckless a part of him thinks, sending him flying across the forest floor, slamming face first against the tree that he grapples onto to stay upright, the nails of his gloves digging into the bark as his knees give out from under him.

Tenzou falls to the ground as his world tips over, off kilter, nausea washing over him again, worse than the last time, as he vomits blood and stomach acid, his head _ringing_ with a siren that won’t clear, even as he brings his hands to ears and grits his teeth, trying to push the pain away, trying to get his concertation back. Failing, oh gods, not again, not again, not again!

He barely has enough energy to block the round house kick that is aimed right at his face, both forearms coming up as he is sent flying, the back of skull connecting hard and solidly with a tree in his path, tearing out a groan from his throat as everything in him goes still.

He’s lying in the clearing, the sound of the river reaching his ears, every bit of his body _aching_ , throbbing, broken as he turns his head to the side and sees Iruka, ever so beautiful Iruka looking down at him with a smile and an outstretched hand, a dimple winking at Tenzou’s direction. Tenzou knows this dream, he’s seen it a hundred times over the past three years.

He takes Iruka’s hand, Iruka’s grip strong and firm, as Iruka pulls him up and whispers, _fight strong_.

Tenzou is jerked up to his feet, disoriented, his head _ringing_ as he stares at Kakashi’s concerned face, at Kakashi's gloved hand that had helped Tenzou up and off the floor, at the ashen pallor visible over the edge of his mask.

Kakashi looks terrified, scared even.

Tenzou isn’t sure why when they’re simply sparring aren’t they?

“Senpai?” Tenzou says, his voice thick, strangled, like he’s just swallowed and coughed out a lungful of water, his feet taking a step forward.

Except his world spins out of control, Kakashi suddenly tilting dangerously to one side.

And Kakashi is there, his heart jackhammering in his ribs when his arms snap out when he sees the blood start to trickle down Tenzou’s nose. He catches Tenzou before Tenzou hits the ground, watching as Tenzou’s eyes rolls backwards dangerously, the color draining from Tenzou’s face, while all Kakashi can think is shit, shit, shit! 

Their spar now is nothing compared to what it had been in the past. It had started off exactly as how it always did in the past. Except somewhere in the middle, Tenzou had started getting erratic, panicked, reckless and messy. So unlike himself. Certainly nothing like the reports Kakashi had received from his team. Kakashi isn’t sure what happened, as he shakes Tenzou and checks for his pulse, slapping his cheek firmly to get a reaction out of him, calling his name sharply.

Tenzou doesn't move. Tenzou doesn't response. Not even a twitch.

_Fuck._

Kakashi whistles out sharply in the air, summoning Tenzou’s teammates who appear looking equally worried.

“Get Iruka,” Kakashi says, as he hoists Tenzou’s body in his arms, Tenzou’s head lolling like dead weight on Kakashi’s shoulder. “Meet me in the infirmary. If he’s in a class, wait for him to finish. Do not make him panic."

“Yes, Hokage-sama!”

They shunshin out of sight, just as Kakashi does to, heading straight for the ANBU hospital.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing battle scenes. 
> 
> SO! I WROTE THIS AGAIN! It's a bit of a shorter chapter but! BUT! I wrote it! Horay?! 
> 
> A top Iruka is a sexy Iruka, y/n? Also, a happy tenzou is a lovely tenzou, y/y? Hate it? Love it? Either way, thank you for reading this far! I hope you're still enjoying this somehow T_T


	17. xvii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd.

They tell Kakashi it’s a mild concussion.

They tell Kakashi that Tenzou is going to be _fine_.

But standing there, watching Tenzou lie so still under the sheets, bruises littering his body from their spar makes Kakashi’s breathing rapid and shallow. They come out in short puffs of air, his pulse throbbing in his temples as he stares at Tenzou’s breath mist around the mask around his nose, as his eyes roam over the expanse of Tenzou’s broad chest and abdomen, at minor expected scrapes that litters it from when he had fallen and tumbled through the man made broken earth earlier in the training ground. Tenzou lying so still surrounded in dull grays, dim halogen and white sheets makes him look so incredibly vulnerable, broken, _damaged_.

When Tenzou, for as long as Kakashi can remember, has always been the stronger one out of the two of them. Tenzou has always been the one who is stable, who fears nothing when he closes his eyes to sleep at night, unperturbed by the screams of his victims, the weight of their dead bodies in his gloved hands, the stickiness of their blood seeping under his nails, something that Kakashi has watched him countless time simply wash out in the ANBU showers with ease, like how one would after having a meal. Kakashi was watched Tenzou over the years maintain a placid feature through the rot and death of being within the ranks of the black ops, has watched him _flourish_ in said rot and death. Kakashi has lost count how many times he’s seen Tenzou wash blood out of his hair, off his body, sometimes peeling pieces of flesh, flicking them down the tiled floors, uncaring as it swirls with the rush water down the drain.

There is nothing Tenzou seems fear because Tenzou has always been strong. Tenzou, like Kakashi, doesn’t falter in the face of his enemy.

Tenzou also doesn’t falter within the walls of the village, even when the doors are closed and there is the safety of trust. He never falls to pieces, sinks to his knees, desperation in his eyes, every part of him shaking as he closes his eyes and surrenders to the moment of having flesh slapping against flesh, of having to forget what he had done. Tenzou doesn’t quite lose himself in the present, at least, not the way Kakashi does. Because Kakashi, unlike Tenzou, isn’t capable of sleeping like a baby at night, not when the screams are the loudest and when sometimes, the lack of a warm, live body beside him makes it all the more worse; those nights, the crackle of lightning is the loudest. On those nights, the sound of rocks plummeting from the heaves and crushing bone and flesh of a small boy is deafening, the heaviest, every time Kakashi tries to lift it up with his hands but fails, fails and always failing.

Those nights, Kakashi sleeps the poorest.

But not Tenzou.

Tenzou has slept through war, or so Kakashi thinks, because Tenzou had seemed okay after the war, even when shame at being captured and kept like that, of his body being robbed of its autonomy makes Tenzou lowers his gaze, his pallor turning waxy as he chooses silence over words. Kakashi understands that too, because Tenzou has always been driven by logical thought. Tenzou, more than anyone he knows, is just wired a whole lot differently than most of them and it’s mostly because of his earlier conditioning.

The perfect soldier.

One who remains whole no matter what war he fights.

(Or maybe he was never whole to begin with. Maybe he is only strong because he is too broken to be any thing else. Maybe, the reason Tenzou sleeps so well at night, undisturbed, unperturbed, perhaps guilt-free even, is because there is nothing in him to break. That he is, more than anyone else Kakashi knows, the most broken man of all.)

Kakashi shudders a soft exhale, taking a step back to lean against the windowsill, his gaze never leaving Tenzou’s form.

He tells himself that the fear in his chest right now is simply a complex concoction of brain chemicals, that he should, if anything, analyze the current situation as he would without it. Kakashi exhales slowly once more through his nose, trying to shake away the nervous tick from his limbs as he crosses his arms across his chest, staring at Tenzou’s sleeping face, assessing it all from the outside. He goes through their spar sequence, thinking back to every move, every expression Tenzou had openly worn on his face towards the end. Kakashi has never seen fear and desperation that way on Tenzou’s face before, never so open like this anyway.

Tenzou looked haunted, all logic leaving him. Tenzou had _scrambled_ , utterly _reckless_ , so unlike his measured self that Kakashi finds it so hard to believe, had it not happened before his eyes.

Tenzou had been afraid of something and when Kakashi thinks, thinks, thinks, he realizes that it had been in that moment when Tenzou had fallen backwards into the earth, plummeting through jagged earth from the remnants of _douton_ , rolling into water and mud.

And then Tenzou had said senpai.

 _Senpai_.

Like he recognizes Kakashi. Like he _knows_ Kakashi, when all this time, for the past several weeks since Tenzou’s return in the early winter, Kakashi had been nothing but a _you_ , or a _Hokage-sama_ or the _leader_. Always formal, always distant, no familiarity.

Kakashi had been the unknown.

That reminder, that two syllable word makes the nervousness in Kakashi erupt once more, his heart thundering in his chest at the infinite possibility of what it can all mean.

Logically, Kakashi knows that overthinking things at this point will serve no purpose whatsoever. He knows that until Tenzou opens his eyes, there is nothing he can do but wait, and _hope_ , gods, Kakashi didn’t think he could _hope_ this _much_ after so, so goddamn long. But he wants to hope this time. He wants some _good_ to come out of this, whatever the fuck this is.

Just this once, Kakashi hopes that it’ll work out well, when given his history, he had an impressive track record of things never working out.

Not for him anyway.

*

Tenzou is running, cutting across treetops, chakra burning through his legs in the dark, leaving no tracks behind him as he leaps from tree branch to tree branch, his pursuers behind him. He counts three signatures, one directly behind him, about a kilometer away; one his right, eight hundred meters away; one on his left, approximately five hundred meters away. The presence of three suddenly divides to the presence of six. He thinks shadow clones, or some sort of clone that is more solid because he hears it, the several rustling taps of branches.

It's loud, echoing through the dark of the night.

Until the barrage of kunais comes curving approximately forty degrees from his right.

Tenzou has but a second to notice that they come wrapped with explosives tags, something that makes him break his leaping trajectory to avoid the blast radius, mokuton shield already enveloping his body, but barely giving him any cover as the simultaneous explosion rocks through the dense forest.

Tenzou is knocked sideways and backwards, right into the attack range of the pursuer on his left, who swings his sword and sends forth a whiplash of lighting. Tenzou manages to evade the lightning whiplash, but not the blow of the blade. It slices through his side, hard, deep, the grunt-cry escaping his mouth before he can stop it as he goes with the motion of the cut, feels it slice through his flesh as he hopes that it isn’t too bed, even when it _burns_. He grabs the wrist attached to that sword, holding it prisoner as he takes that pursuant with him _down_ , plummeting from the sky to the forest floor before mokuton erupts from the trees in jagged spikes. Tenzou’s foot finds its place on his pursuant’s neck, and he _pushes_ , snapping it clean and letting mokuton pierce through the body, leaving it to hang in the tree lines like a human sacrifice before he hits the ground in a crouch and breaks into a run, one hand pressing to his side, ducking under the sudden salvo of senbons.

One catches him across the cheek, across the neck, and then on the arm and thigh, and that’s when Tenzou starts to feel his body slow down, sluggish, his hands already forming seals to send mokuton clones in different directions. They scatter, like wild insects, as Tenzou leaps for the trees, just like his clones and digs into his utility pack for the standard antidote they all carry, quickly injecting it into his arm as he continues to put distance between himself and his insistent pursuers.

Tenzou crushes the vial, releasing it in the wind, just as forest burns a bright red and he’s forced to leap backwards, slamming his hands into seals and forming a water barrier around himself, _katon_ engulfing everything and anything its path.

Tenzou drowns in an inferno, unable to see in front or behind and quickly drops down the ground, sinks into the earth and moves under the trees.

It gives him distance, it gives him time, but not enough when the earth starts to shake around him and he’s forced to return to the surface when two tidal waves of incoming earth blockades comes for him, intending to squash him like the roach he must be to his pursuers. He’s already tired, running on steam; popping another soldier pill now will buy him extra energy but also pose as a danger because he’s been popping them like candy since he broke apart from his team, trying to give them clear path free of trouble to get that information home.

When Tenzou surfaces, he’s met with two of his pursuers, blades coming down straight for his head that he is barely able to block with his arm guard and blade. The downward force is brutal, leaving Tenzou unmatched.

But mokuton gives him leverage, as vines curl around his feet and boots, crawling up his back as the whole earth pushes Tenzou _upwards_ , against the onslaguth of that deadly force, a cry ripping past his mouth as he pushes, pushes, pushes back, goddamnit, and knocks them back.

The chakra exhaustion makes Tenzou sway, black dotting his vision as his two attackers leap back from his upwards push only to power back against him.

This time, they take Tenzou down, the blade cleaving down Tenzou’s shoulder, the other on his aggravated side. The mask shatters, as Tenzou bites his lower lip and gets a kick against the wound on his side and a boot to the face.

He rolls backwards, tumbling through the forest, faintly seeing the moon above him as he crashes on the forest floor and continues to roll, roll, and roll until he thuds to a complete stop against a tree.

Tenzou has seconds to react, his whole world spinning, heart drumming in his chest when a barrage of kunai follow him, explosive tags taped all over the handle. Tenzou is pushing himself off the floor with his good arm, functioning solely on adrenalin as he things, gods he’s not going to make this one, oh gods, he promised Iruka he’d fight strong but his strength is failing him. He had wanted to go home, he wants to go home, gods he want to fucking just get home somehow!

Tenzou manges to pull himself by extending an arm ahead, mokuton wrapping around a thick branch and _yanking_ himself away from the line of fire, explosion propelling him forward and make him fall and skid across his chest, fire and forest debris flying over his head as ground under him _trembles_ from the blast.

He pops a soldier pill, pushes himself up, getting ready to run, to just run, run, run.

Except a foot lands on his knee cap, shattering bone, snapping his calf bone in half, taking Tenzou down with the kick – maybe it was a kick, Tenzou isn’t sure anymore, he can’t see that well anymore. Something catches him on the jaw, and then the back of his head, fists raining down, down and down, forcing him backward as he tries to stand on one leg, uncaring of how much it hurts anymore.

The mask shatters, falling somewhere.

And then there’s a kick to his chest, something that makes fluid and blood _flood_ his lungs as his sternum _shatters_ under the chakra induced front kick.

And then he’s falling, his sword slipping from his desperate grip, as he stares up at the faces of his pursuers getting smaller and smaller and he plummets down faster, faster, the sky looking so clear, the glow of the moon bright and then its cold.

It’s freezing, his leg catching on something that pierces through bone and flesh, making Tenzou _cry_ out as airbubbles surround him, blinds him, obscures the flow of the moon and stars above, as he tries to reach out for his leg, oh gods, his leg, it’s fucked, he’s fucked, he’s so fucked -- Tenzou screams, he chokes, the rushing water of the river sweeping him southwards, desperation robbing him of strategy, fear choking him as he succumbs to the panic, limbs that won’t move flailing, trying to grapple on to something, someone, oh gods, Iruka, Iruka--

Tenzou breaks the surface and sputters, sitting up as his hands comes to his face, struggling with gods, what the fuck is on his face, it’s not his mask. There are hands on his shoulders, leather on his face that makes gives rise to Tenzou’s defensive reflexes, makes him feel the length of that arm and resort to a disarm and attack maneuver.

Only to find himself staring through misting plastic at Kakashi’s concerned face. Kakashi has him pinned down to the pillow, a bed, not the forest floor, not the river banks even. The light behind Kakashi’s head is halogen, not the moon, most definitely not the stars.

“It’s me, easy,” Kakashi says, firm, commanding. Which then softens. “Easy, Tenzou.”

The misting oxygen mask is lifted and Tenzou remains frozen, staring up at Kakashi who keeps holding him down with a forearm on his chest, both of Tenzou’s wrist held in a vice over his head, putting a firm stop of Tenzou’s struggles.

Tenzou blinks, the question falling past his lips before he can stop it. “Senpai?”

Just as the day’s memories comes slamming back into him in a flurry of images.

They were sparring. They were sparring because Kakashi wants to assess the vote of confidence his team had submitted in their report on Tenzou’s rehabilitation. Rehabilitation that had been necessary because Tenzou had been labelled dead, when he hadn’t been because he had only lost his memories. He had survived that fall, had lived on a farm, with Chiyo and Jun and the Himura-farm-boys. He had searched for Konoha not really knowing about Konoha for a year, only to return to the farm and get dragged back because Kakashi had found him, had tracked him, had questioned him and then Iruka – _oh gods_.

Kakashi releases Tenzou, pulling back as Tenzou goes as still as the dead, following Kakashi’s movements, watching as Kakashi carefully sits down on the edge of the bed, tugging his mask down to reveal an expression Tenzou has only ever seen on Kakashi when he’s about to be disappointed.

“You remember me?” Kakashi asks slowly, the words gravelly, barely above a whisper.

Tenzou opens his mouth to respond with a yes, because he remembers _everything_. He remembers two sets of memories, one with crystal clarity like he’s been running away from his pursuant just minutes ago. And one like he had been standing at some sort of road block, or maybe behind a paper screen that stretches from the ground to the sky, dulling the things ahead of him, but giving him enough access to all the things around him. He remembers being questioned, how Kakashi had looked at him with crushing guilt and disappointment. He remembers the false cheer of team seven’s first visit, their hopeful optimism that their taichou will be okay. He remembers the support of his own team, as he navigated blindly through a life that he wanted, that was his but not really, not when he is the ghost of a dead husband, when Iruka, at first had looked at him with relief and joy, but also a distant sorrow. When Iruka had looked so small, so frail, so broken, because Tenzou did that to him, by not fighting strong, by dying the field without so much as a goodbye, robbing Iruka’s world of love and color, turning him to nothing more a rusty reflection of his wonderful beauty, plunging Iruka’s whole world into the cold, like the icy river that had filled Tenzou’s lungs to the brim, washing away parts of who he is, all the good that had been in him, his fighting spirit, his reason to keep fighting.

And then Kakashi who never stopped looking for him.

Whose summons kept looking for him.

Kakashi who didn’t know what to do when he had to bury another comrade.

Kakashi who couldn’t bare to be reminded of his guilt, who watched Iruka come apart, probably thinking it’s his fault, all his fault, all of it his when Tenzou knows it isn’t. Death came to ANBU naturally, it’s part of the risk every time they stepped out of the field.

Tenzou knows that.

Kakashi knows that.

And yet Tenzou is left sitting there, on the bed, half upright as he stares at Kakashi and watches his world blur, as he opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , a simple _yes_ to Kakashi’s response because he remembers.

He remembers _everything_.

Kakashi’s arms are suddenly around him, strong and solid and real, a palm clapping around Tenzou’s shoulder blade as Kakashi’s embraces him, understanding the one syllable answer that Tenzou isn’t able to form because words fail him now when his entire mind is a flutter of images trying to realign themselves in their right timeslots, making his head _throb_ with an ache that makes him nauseous.

Kakashi is grinning, a film of salt in his eyes, the grin making him look young, as he cups Tenzou’s face and smooshes them, a nervous laugh leaving his throat as he wipes away the tears that seemed to have escaped the corners of Tenzou’s eyes without realizing.

“If I had known that all I had to do to get you to remember was kick you in the head, I would have the done the moment I brought you home,” Kakashi says, wiping the tears that just won’t stop.

Gods, why won’t it stop?

“Thank you,” Tenzou says, his voice sounding odd, thick, wet. “Thank you for everything, senpai.”

“Don’t thank me just yet—“

Tenzou knows what that means, the _yet_ of that statement, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn.

He grabs Kakashi by the forearms and shakes his head, his face crumpling like chakra paper as he ducks and _weeps_ and comes apart, shaking under Kakashi’s hands as he repeats and blubbers his gratitude like a broken record, over and over again, because if it hadn’t been for Kakashi, he’d never be able to come home to Iruka.

*

Iruka knows something has gone completely wrong when the moment the last child in his class steps out, the familiar ANBU mask of Sparrow, Stag and Raccoon appears.

The cold comes back with a vengeance all of a sudden, wrapping Iruka in its trap of forever winter when he stares at their porcelain faces, his voice muted as shackles suddenly wrap around his neck, wrist and ankles. There is a jagged spike of a cold blade suddenly twisting in his gut, deep and slow, making Iruka shake as he stare at their blank faces, all kinds of horrors and what ifs rising to the surface of his mind, making him think what happened, what’s wrong, is Tenzou okay, is he hurt – it leaves Iruka paralyzed on the spot, throbbing with a hurt that has nowhere to go but inwards, leaving Iruka’s outer extremities cold as if they’ve been exposed to frostbite. Iruka swallows, balling his hands to fists that he tucks behind his back as he gives the three sudden presences his full attention.

“Yes?”

They look at each other once before they step up to him. “Hokage-sama has ordered us to bring you in once you conclude your class, Iruka-san,” Sparrow says, Iruka recognizing her voice.

“Taichou is at the hospital. The training…” Stag tapers off.

The training. Right. Tenzou is supposed to train with the Rokudaime this afternoon as his final test to see if he’s field ready.

“W-What happened?” Iruka manages to croak.

“Please come with us,” Raccoon says and gently places a gloved hand on Iruka’s shoulder, while Stag picks up his satchel from his chair and hangs the strap over Iruka’s shoulder. “We will take you to him. You ready?”

Iruka can only nod mutely, as he braces himself through the shunshin.

He lands in the middle of the ANBU infirmary reception, where he’s promptly given a cyan tag that he quickly clips on his vest, visible to all, while Sparrow asks for detail on where the agent that came in with the Rokudaime is.

They are given a number and Iruka follows on numb legs as they cross one hallway after another into a small recovery room that opens to reveal the Rokudaime sitting on a chair, ankle crossed over to a knee, reading his orange book, while Tenzou stands there by the window, shirtless, barefoot, littered in bruises and scrapes, looking out at the treeline beyond.

The panic that that been there crashes down to the floor as Iruka finds himself shakily exhaling when Kakashi turns to look up at him and salutes him with the spine of his book. “Yo!”

There seems to be a collective exhale of relief, before Stag, Racoon and Sparrow shows themselves out immediately.

“What happened?” Iruka asks slowly, setting his bag down by the unmade bed, his hand gripping the metal railing by the foot of the bed.

“Ah, you can say that it may have been a false alarm. I may have kicked my kouhai in the head by accident earlier on during our spar,” Kakashi says, sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with the spine of his book.

Iruka isn’t sure what to make of that, except he feels his lungs start to function normally. “And – is everything okay? I mean, Tenzou – you –“ Iruka looks at Tenzou who still keeps staring out through the window. “A kick in the head? Why would you – did you go on all out on him? You’re the Hokage!”

“Maa—“

“And he’s got a head injury! You kicked him in the fucking head?” Iruka’s voice goes up an octave. “Was it a regular kick in the head because when you send three ANBU agents to bring me in with little to no information, it sure as fuck sounds serious!” Iruka’s panic comes out in useless drivel, something that makes Kakashi’s eyes simply arc sheepishly.

“Ah, yeah, so, about that, well…” Kakashi chuckles awkwardly.

Chuckles that taper off to silence when Tenzou Tenzou turns to face the room, Iruka tracking after Kakashi’s gaze that falls on Tenzou.

It’s in that moment that Iruka notices it, the difference, the slight gloss to Tenzou’s gaze, the red rim of his puffy eyelids. Worry catapults Iruka in that moment, making everything in him sink to the core of the earth, as Tenzou continues to look at him with an expression that Iruka isn’t quite sure what to do about.

It’s familiar.

It too familiar, that soft look in Tenzou’s eyes, the warmth in its depths, when the corners of his lips twitches ever so slightly up to a lopsided smile, a touch sheepish, so boyishly charming, so unlike the ones Iruka had gotten used to over the past long, several weeks. Months, now that he realizes.

“Miss me?” Tenzou asks, whisper soft.

And that makes Iruka’s breath catch.

It makes him stare, and stare, as everything in him seizes inwards, as he dares not hope on the possibilities of what those words mean, words that Iruka hasn’t heard in _years_ , words that Tenzou used to always, always say whenever Iruka sees him for the first time after a long time of being away from the village.

Iruka gets his answer when he blinks rapidly at Kakashi, trying to see if this is real, that maybe the Hokage would have the answer, would allude to what’s going on because Iruka can’t trust this. He can’t let himself believe in hoping that the past life where he had been truly the happiest may be coming back, when he’s already made peace with his new present, a fresh start, where he’s been happy too.

But the look in Kakashi’s eyes is soft too, gentle, almost relief as he stands from his perch on the bed, places a hand on Iruka’s shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze, reassuring Iruka, always, always reassuring Iruka, before the corners of his eyes soften to what Iruka knows is a smile under the mask.

A smile that is real.

And then Kakashi is gone, leaving Iruka there, to look at Tenzou’s whose eyebrows are pinching, lines appearing on his chin as his lips trembles and oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—

Iruka is in Tenzou’s arms, embracing him in a vice, a sob tearing past his mouth as he says, yes, _yes, yes, yes,_ a hundred times, a thousand times, pressing his hands to Tenzou’s face and sweeping over the tears that carve down his cheekbones, marring his handsome face with grief and devastation and an apology that keeps spilling out of Tenzou’s mouth, over and over again.

But Iruka is laughing too, laughing and pressing kisses to Tenzou’s chin, his cheek, his forehead, tasting the salt of his grief and shaking his head as he presses their foreheads together and continues to pepper kisses all over Tenzou’s face, unable to stop the sob from wrenching past his throat that fades to chuckles.

Tenzou who simply stands there, with his eyes closed, unsure of what to say, what to do, when Iruka is in his arms again, when he’s come home to Iruka, when it’s always been Iruka he’s been searching for, wanting, yearning, all these years.

“It’s so good to have _all_ of you back,” Iruka says, utterly breathless.

All of you back, Iruka says. Not it’s good to have you back. But all of him. The past and the present.

Iruka’s smile is so bright that it sends an ache right through Tenzou’s chest, rendering him weak and powerless as he exhales wetly, pressing his forehead to Iruka’s shoulders, washing away the last of the fears of falling into the darkness, the last few traces of always feeling displaced as for the first time in a long time, Tenzou stands strong on his own two feet.

*

The first thing Tenzou does when he gets home is to push Iruka down on their bed, taking his mouth in his and kissing the breath out of his lungs. The first thing he does after he gets cleared to go home is to make love to the love of his life, holding him impossibly tight and coming in his body with a ferocity that leaves him breathless, their eyes locked the entire time.

He kisses away the tears that tracks down the corners of Iruka’s eyes, peppers them all over the slope of his husband’s neck and over his chest where Tenzou remains bowed there, like he’s kneeling before a god in a temple, catching his breath.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Tenzou confesses. “ _Everywhere_. You are my greatest strength. You have been. Even when I couldn’t remember you, you were what I followed…”

And then it just pours out of him, the whole truth, everything that he’s kept trapped in the prison of his throat as Iruka looks up at him, crystal gleaming around the corners of his eyes, Tenzou’s cock still buried deeply in his body.

“I remembered things, my first kill that was my pet dog from Danzou, a few images with team seven, a bit of what I was to senpai before you. But nothing about you and I can’t understand why. I can’t understand why I couldn’t remember you, when all this time, when I had nothing, I just had the image of you. You were always telling me to fight strong. And I tried. I _tried_ , I swear to you I tried. I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t mean to put you through all that. Gods, what have I done to you, what you went through all these years when I had spent it trying to figure out who I was in a fucking _farm_ like a civilian, when I should have been trying harder to find you—“

Tenzou’s words are cut short when Iruka silences him with his mouth, leaning up to rob the rest of the grieving guilt right out of Tenzou.

“It doesn’t matter—“

“Iruka—“

“ _it doesn’t matter_ ,” Iruka repeats, breathing the words against Tenzou’s lips, desperate, heated, something that makes Tenzou arch his hips and rip a gasp out of Iruka’s mouth. “You’re here now. And that’s all that matters. That farm saved you. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to come home… don’t talk about them like that again, please…”

Tenzou grits his teeth, biting his lower lip as he nods mutely, his chest constricting once before relaxing completely, his lips parting for one, full, sweet shuddered breath that finally tastes like freedom.

*

Tenzou is lying in bed when dawn peeks over the horizon, having laid awake the whole night watching Iruka sleep, uncaring of what had happened in the past, pointedly not thinking about the past, about the people that had their hands on his most precious person, at Kakashi silencing Iruka’s cries with his mouth, or his cock, or his hands.

Iruka who still looks so narrow, too lean, so unlike the man he had kissed on the temple that day, long and lingering, telling him that he’d see him soon. Forever ago, it seems.

But Iruka sleeps peacefully now, no trouble upon his brow, right at home in the room that he couldn’t step into, couldn’t stand being, pillow marks on his cheek, his longer hair free and flowing over the pillow case and sheets, ever so beautiful in the light of dawn.

His Iruka.

His beloved.

His most, _most_ precious person.

 _Marry me again_ , Tenzou murmurs, right against Iruka’s ear, never wanting anything more other than _this_. Sure in his words. Sure in his question.

And Iruka, who simply hums sleepily with a smile and says, _yes_.

*

What happens next is this:

They move to a new house for their new beginnings, the property tucked past a canopy of orange trees and cinnamon trees that he plants himself, that then opens up to a field of green and purple lavender, his loud declaration of devotion to his most precious person. And there, in the middle is a small farm and a home, not too big, not too small.

A home that sees much noise these days, because Tenzou chooses to retire Cat and instead, becomes Yamato-sensei to three, new graduates from the academy.

A home that gets frequent visits from those students, who once upon a time, also passed through Iruka’s hands. Tenzou’s team comes by during the holidays too, because they would spend it alone if they don’t, having no parents. Children that Iruka learns to love all the same, just as much as he loves Naruto.

A home that still gets visits from Stag, Raccoon and Sparrow, who never stops visiting, and when their schedules allow it, they still train together.

A home that gets surrounded by fire and gold come the fall, where Kakashi stands witness to the Umino’s renewing their marriage, surrounded by close friends dressed in their best, snapping pictures at the happy couple, a table filled with towering gifts, and Tenzou thinking just how beautiful Iruka looks in his kimono, at the dimples dotting their cheeks as they sign the scroll and slip rings into each other’s fingers. A home that gets drowned in an ear splitting cheer, leaving Tenzou’s heart so full, when he _guffaws_ in laughter at Kakashi staring and flushing like a fool at having caught the bouquet Iruka caves and tosses with an eyeroll behind his back after being peer pressured. Kakashi who stands there, staring at Gai who simply grins up at him, ear to ear, getting redder by the minute.

A home that becomes a spot to picnics, and barbeques, and drinking sessions with Iruka’s crazy friends, lunches and dinners with team seven, and more often than not, later on, double dinner dates with Kakashi and Gai.

A home that they leave behind for a short holiday to River, where Tenzou goes back to the farm that he owes his life too, growing watermelons and strawberries and oranges for the Himura-farm-boys who had whooped and ran over to him, throwing arms around him in a ferocious embrace. Iruka who humbly bows down to the old couple, grateful and teary, thanking them for saving his husband, while Jun and Chiyo crows and makes room for them in their modest farm house. They spend the weekend there, enjoying ripe plums and tea, while Tenzou makes adjustments to the farm, strengthen he walls of the old couple’s home and makes sure that the Himura-farm-boys will never run out of watermelons that grow as big as barrels.

A home that Tenzou continues to be grateful for to come home too every single day, where Iruka greets him by the genkan, crossing the threshold with Mango at his feet to say, “Missed me?”

And Tenzou would wrap his arms around Iruka, as tight as he can, refusing to let go, never letting go, and respond, “ _Yes_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's DONE. 
> 
> It is official! On this day, the Beneath the Sun series is officially wrapped up! If you're still reading this, I want you guys to know how grateful I am that you've come with me on this journey this far and this long! I am utter trash when it comes to responding to comments but believe me when I say that I appreciate every single one of them. If I've managed to somehow give you some sort of entertainment in any shape or form, then that in and of itself is rewarding enough!
> 
> But mostly, I am grateful that you guys gave YamaIru/IruYama a chance. I hope you continue to support this pairing! And maybe add more content to this pairing, too! 
> 
> HAPPY HOLIDAYS! And once more, THANK YOU! ^_^


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